Paris or Bust

No Rest for the Righteous

2007-09-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

Roger and I rode into the village. The routine was the same; the route zigged and zagged into the town center, past the church, and out again. This one was a little larger, a little uglier, with more pavement. Riders wrapped in Mylar blankets slept in doorways and bus shelters along the way. Roger spotted a pay phone.

We had slept, about two hours maybe, in a café about two villages back. Oh what a place!! A charming little hole in the wall under siege by dirty, smelly, weary, soaking wet men. After a cheap feast of simple soup, pasta, and ham sandwiches, we crawled onto some mats in a back room. Free of charge. Hell, they even woke us at the prescribed time—they kept a log, a clipboard hanging at the door. Then jovial fellow with the premature graying hair and o-so-French stripey shirt served us coffee and pan au chocolat, still warm from the oven.

And when we departed, I felt like crying. I contemplated hugging the proprietors, but they were too busy and looked as weary as we. A simple “merci beaucoup” was all I could muster when I got their attention. They will never know how I truly felt about them.

But now, less than an hour later the overall lack of sleep was catching up with me. As we rode along the smooth, narrow back-roads of the French countryside, I became increasingly confused. I hallucinated we were on a Florida bike trail; I could smell the surf and hear the waves pounding the shore. I peered over the dune grasses to get a glimpse of the ocean. Instead, cows slept. Over and over, I forgot and remembered again.

Roger decided to call his wife. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dismounted, placed the bike on its side and laid down where I stood. I took no shelter and wasted not a moment looking for a soft patch of ground. I lay flat on my back, head cradled in my helmet, a steady drizzle on my face.

I heard the first few sentences of Roger’s conversation, but I was sound asleep within 10 seconds.

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Forgive me, gentle readers, for my extended absence from the Blogoshpere.

I am in a crisis mode right now. A long story involving various financial difficulties, a fallen tree, a collapsed porch, a leaking roof, a power outage, and a stop work order from the city of Chicago. Dealing with lawyers, contractors, utility companies and claims adjusters has left me “emotionally unavailable.” I’m sure you understand.

Regardless, I shall spare you any further suspense: I completed the Paris-Brest-Paris in under 87 hours, at exactly 1:59 pm, Friday August 24, one minute ahead of schedule. Organizers and participants claim it was the worst weather in 20 years, some say 50. It rained everyday, temps stayed mainly in the 50’s and we fought a headwind about 75% of the time. 27.7% the 5312 entrants —1471 riders— did not finish.

Rest assured, I will flesh out the details in the coming weeks. I do thank you for your continued patience.

In the meantime, you can see—and order— photos of me here.

And you can watch videos and interviews from the ride here. Try and appreciate the hodgepodge of unsorted languages as one of the eccentricities of the ride.

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When I awoke, Roger was standing over me. “O.K., Man, lets go.” I sat up for a moment blinking and dusted the grit and glass off my shoulders. I picked two ants out of my beard. I swallowed the rainwater in my mouth.

Painfully, I rose to my feet and mounted the bike. We rode off towards the dawn.

Au Contraire Mon Frere

2007-08-17T00:18:00.001-07:00

Good News P-B-P-or-B-2007 followers!

You may track my progress in real time as I blaze across the French countryside!

Go to: http://www.paris-brest-paris.org/EN/index.php?showpage=64

And enter my “frame number”: 4675

Currently, you will read these results:

“le participant est inscrit mais non encore parti”

Which, cheaply translated, means:

“the participant is registered but not yet party”

But you see, this is where the internets are in error. For today, under the ruse of our monthly birthday club, my coworkers at Time Out Chicago surprised me with Good Luck party, complete with a bicycle-decorated carrot cake, a punch bowl full of Gator-Aide, and a basket assortment of electrolyte tabs, cliff bars, nuts, dried fruit and even my old favorite, combos.

There was even a giant poster of yours truly superimposed over the streets of Paris and wishing me “Bonne Chance!” on my little ride. The entire staff came streaming by asking the details and wishing me well. I don’t know if one man's demented vacation was ever so thoroughly celebrated.

I am truly humbled and touched.

Thanks,

T.C.

2007-08-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, We Did Not Go to Starved Rock

2007-08-16T01:36:00.000-07:00

Starved Rock Ride 2007, Friday July 20 to Monday July 23.

The 9^th annual Starved Rock Ride would be one of our most ambitious, traveling through 4 states, with individual participants utilizing bicycles, ferries, trains and –for the 2 new sets of parents—a mini-van.

Day 1 Chicago to Milwaukee and across Lake Michigan to Muskegon, MI.

I stayed up all night getting ready, as is my custom. Walking the dog I saw three helicopters hovering less than a mile off. My first thought was that someone had shot a cop; but then I remembered the City only has one chopper. Instead, it was a house fire.

I called at 9am to let the boys know I was en route. They would stop by to drop off an unneeded stove at Todd’s and head out, using my least favorite phrase of all time: “you’ll catch up with us.” To catch up with someone riding a moderate 12mph pace and 15 minutes advance, you need to ride 15mph for a full hour.

I hustled for half an hour, my right foot already starting to pain me, after spending all night on my feet pacing/packing mode. After a few garbled communications, I pulled off the Skokie Sculpture trail to wait and rest. In my zeal, I had overshot them. Soon enough Kevin, Josh, Todd and Shawn rolled up.

We ran into a cyclist at the terminus of the Trail. I told her of my grand scheme to incorporate every bicycle-outlawed roadway in the north shore in our route, at which point she scolded us, agreeing with Evanston’ ruling class that bikes should not interfere with motor-traffic. “If you get a ticket, you deserve it” she warned. “And I’M A CYCLIST” she reminded us.

Yeah, an Uncle Tom cyclist.

Later we observed her riding the sidewalk along Green Bay Rd. “IF YOU GET A TICKET YOU WILL DESERVE IT!” I shouted with glee. “AND I’M A CYCLIST!”

After parting ways with Kevin, we continued north, riding by the Great Lakes Naval Training Facility and the evil looking Abbott Laboratories. We quickly located the statue likeness of Benjamin Kubelsky, native son of Waukegan, IL. In Zion we lunched at sketchy looking place that turned out to be quite good, with a varied menu. I was happy to fuel up after missing breakfast.

After that, we crossed the border and were soon on a lovely stretch lakeside in Kenosha.

We had been making good time on the Red Arrow Highway, but as the day progressed we pushed harder and took less frequent breaks, until finally, it was a flat out race to the Palimino.

We trickled in shortly after 5, doing the 90 miles from home in a little more than 8 hours. We each ordered a hearty meal and many beers, taking much comfort in the fact that the ferry was only a mile up the road.

After procuring the necessary provisions for our lake-going voyage—a case of Pabst and a fifth of Bourbon—we rolled over to the Lake Express, the fastest and most uninterestingly named ferry on the high lake. She was late, so we lay about the staging area drinking and fraternizing with the other passengers. No single women, so we passed the time with Photographer Peter Skiba who was there working on a project.

The crossing was uneventful. I myself was too tired to go topside for the view, but the pain in my foot prevented me from sleep, although photographic evidence to the contrary may soon be forthcoming. After a blown engine delayed us further, we unceremoniously rolled off the vessel amidst the impatient motorists.

We could see our destination, Muskegon State Park, from the port, but had to circumnavigate Lake Muskegon for lack of a bridge. A bike trail led us along, but we eventually abandoned it for the interstate-like multi-lane nightmare roads led us to North Muskegon. I privately had my doubts we were on course, but the street names changed to my liking and over an hour later we found ourselves at the evening’s respite. Once near the shore, the night sky was incredible.

At 2am eastern time we toured the densely populated camp ground. (We had no reservations anywhere on this trip counting on the turn-no-cyclist-away factor.) Reassembling at entrance, we were discussing our illegal options when the rangers pulled up, with narrowed eyes. “May I help you?”

After much typing in silence it was agreed we would crash at the secluded group campground. Sweet. It was 3 before we were in bed. 106 miles for the day.

Day 2: Muskegon State Park to Van Buren State Park

We arose late and ate the breakfast meal at a bagel shop we had observed inbound. I charged my phone, stole some liquid soap, filled the water bottles—all the necessities of proper time management. Over breakfast we came up with three satirical slogans mocking Todd’s “CTA: TAKE IT!” bike jersey: 1) “CTA: TAKE IT (or leave it.)” “CTA: TAKE(ing) IT(‘s time.)” “CTA: TAKE IT (up the ass)”

Nobody else seemed up for the monument/grave of Captain Walker and his branded hand, but as luck would have it, we ran plumb into it.

The lake on the wrong side wreaked havoc with my sense of direction and almost immediately we were off course. Not having proper maps compounded the problem. The only thing that made it better was that everyone else’s sense of direction seemed to off in the same way. Well, once they were into the whiskey. We ate blueberries.

Shawn’s panniers were of a design he’d found on the internet, utilizing two empty cat litter buckets. Waterproof and solid. The only thing that puzzled us was that one bucket claimed to contain a “bonus” 3 pounds, yet both were identical in size. Perhaps they just used heavier gravel?

I myself was using a brand spanking new set, front and back, of fully waterproof Ortlieb panniers, in yellow. The new design is very smart and highly adjustable. Unfortunately I forgot to install an insert in the hangers of one bag and had to resort to a pinkie size stick to keep it from rattling (thanks Shawn.) I also lost some hardware in failing to tighten a hook into position. 5-star bags none the less, available at Rapid Transit Bike Shop.

My other experiment on this trip was switching from Vaseline to Bag Balm for my sensitive parts. It was vast improvement in the arenas of comfort and durability and washes out easier to boot.

Mid day we New Holland Brew Pub and Todd ordered samples “of everything you brew.” Much to the chagrin of the barkeep, I duplicated the order and the four of us sat sharing the full range. Josh did some recon, taking careful photos and mental notes for his own upcoming brew pub.

I new it would happen, months ago when I scoped out the maps, but we ended up on the I-96, the Gerald R. Ford Freeway. The debate subsided once we passed a sign proclaiming a 70MPH speed limit. Funny how these Interstate fuckers never think to put up signs prohibiting peds & bikes on the road itself, just at the on ramps.

We took the nearest exit and made our way to Van Buren State Park, 90 miles for the day. Michael, Gin, Lisa and the babies had out waited the baffled teenage park staff until, once again, the organizational camp site was relinquished. Having diner --Gin’s signature lentil goodness-- and cold, draft home brew waiting for us there was divine.

We entertained the young’uns and they entertained us.

Day 3: Van Buren State Park to Warren Dunes State Park

After a lazy breakfast, Gin, Lisa, Josh, Shawn and I hit the road, leaving Miguel and Violet in the care of their daddies.

We hit up the Venetian Festival in St. Joseph, a day late for Kansas, but in plenty of time for various greasy, salty and meaty treats. After some snacking, we inadvertently split up and lunched at two different mediocre establishments. Josh accompanied a lactating Lisa whose need to feed was building.

Onward we rolled, crossing paths with the fellas & babies south of town.

Again, we were quickly off course, adding miles to our easy day. The “Google Maps” printouts I had prepared were woefully inadequate. Major roads were not labeled, sometimes even those of the route itself. The names of the towns were printed in nearly the same font as those of streets, and placed above roadways for maximum confusion. I have made it my 2 year goal to get a phone with internet for maps, aerials, businesses and points of interest on the fly.

We all rendezvoused at a first rate ice cream shop and did the final stretch to Warren Dunes State Park proceeding directly to the beach. The lake was cold and refreshing. Shawn and I swam out to a buoy. Speculating the depth we shot down to the bottom, a jarring 8” below our feet and immediately burst to the surface in a fit of laughter.

Michael had again scored the organizational site, only to abandon it for the more desirable ‘primitive’ sites (ie no electric.) The sites were well spaced, with plenty of foliage, soft sandy soil and the standard great fire pit. In short, grade A, except for the ceaseless drone of the Interstate, which negated all the aforementioned positive quantities. Ugh.

We crowded around the stoves preparing a pasta diner and noshing appetizers. I was against so many olives in the sauce, but it turned out wonderfully. Josh disappeared and returned with his shirt full of black berries. I don’t think those stains are coming out. We sat around the fire and I toasted several perfect marshmallows.

Day 4 Warren Dunes to Chicago.

What did we eat for breakfast with our strong coffee? We packed up and left Todd and the women-folk to mind the wee ones.

We decided on the longer route of trails—the Calumet, the Prairie Duneland, the Oak Savannah, the Erie Lackawanna. It was good to have a bike map again (check here for an updated PDF.)

Another tourist destination that met with much protest was the 1933 World’s Fair “Homes of Tomorrow” which were brought to sandy Beverly Shores via barge after the festivities. Regardless, I persisted and we made the mild detour. They have fallen into disrepair, but are currently being fixed up, some by private individuals and some by the State.

After many miles, photos and dictaphone notations, my camera ran out of juice. To bad.

After riding out the Prairie Duneland to it’s endpoint in Hobart, we ran into a couple of 60 year old roadies on carbon jobbies who made it their day’s good deed to escort us to the Oak Savannah, zig zagging along the unsigned route.

At the Trailhead they bit us farewell took off with a start, but Josh jumped on their tail and rest of did the same. Soon we were enjoying a 20mph pace, drafting them on our fully loaded rigs, which we did all the way to the Erie Lackawanna, where we said our goodbyes again.

At some point, perhaps subconsciously, we decided to hit up the Three Floyds Brew Pub in Munster, IN. I’ve been there twice, once on Mark Sinclair's ride and the following year when I organized the same event in his honor.

Not having approached it from the east, we sought it out by landmarks—bike paths, train tracks and a water tower; or perhaps it was the sweet hoppy aroma that led us to it’s miserable industrial park location.

When we arrived to find it closed. It was like Clark Griswold at Wally World, except there was no Moose to punch, only the gardener. Good thing we didn’t hit him, as he turned out to be the patriarch of the Floyd family.

Josh, a former Goose Island Brewer, asked him a few questions and made a call or two. Within a few minutes we were standing inside, beers in hand. Nice work Josh and eternal gratefulness to brewer (brewmaster?) Barnaby for his incredible hospitality, serving up samplers of numerous varieties.

We also shot the shit awhile with visiting brewer Teri Fahrendorf, who keeps a fantastic blog of her cross country brewery tour. With her was Matt Van Wyk, Brewmaster at Flossmoor Station back in our home state, who graciously offered to buy us the first round at his place. We made haste.

A light intoxication in the hot afternoon sun made taking our lane on Glenwood Lansing Rd. a bit less nerve-wracking. Soon we were at our third brewery of the trip, enjoying another assortment of fine beverages, pub fare and the last of Michael’s cigars.

Josh and Michael could not resist the allure of the Metra Electric, which practically stops at the brew pubs back door (it is a former rail station.) Shawn and I bid them farewell with a gift of a bungee and continued the journey north, up Kedzie, saying our own good-byes at 55^th.

104 for the day. 340 for the trip.

T.C.

See all the SSR2007 Photos Here

Not the Soda Pop, the Bombs

2007-08-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

Backlog Ride Missive #2: July 15, 2007

I’d worked up a tight schedule to keep—being that this was a 150 mile, train to train ride. Sunday morning the trains sleep in, so I would have limited time, not hitting the road in Elburn until after 10am. From there I wanted to check out Franklin Creek Natural Area, revisit Dixon, wander the remains of the Green River Ordinance Plant, hit the pharmacy in Amboy for a malted milkshake, hit Shabbona Lake State Park and catch the last train in Aurora at 11:20pm.

To keep the surprises to a minimum, I made an extensive itinerary, including a detailed route, restaurant options in each of the towns, sights to see, mileages between cities and turn by turn directions to the train station. I then forgot it atop the printer. Sigh.

The train was packed with bikes, so much so that I have made it a personal rule to arrive a minimum of 20 minutes before departure to ensure a spot. I settled in with my coffee, maps and some info and aerials of the GROP. I noted with glee the location of an “O’Rourke Rd.” and added it to the schedule.

By 10:15 I was on the road-- Keslinger – and not long after crossed from Kane to De Kalb, the road becoming more rural. Merrit Prairie (pdf) looked nice, but I was good and passed it up. I counted 15 beer cans in a one mile stretch of this road, Miller Lite the local beer of choice by a large margin.

I caught a flat shortly before noon and limped along to the first tree I could find. Glass. I hustled and was back in action within 15 minutes. Kesslinger turned to gravel as was indicated on the IDOT Map-- one of the only benefits of the set. I headed south on 23.

At noon I had 28.5 miles on me and was running a respectable 15.1 mph average, up from the 11mph ride from home to the Loop. Approaching Steward, I began to see sport cyclists in oncoming droves. Some sort of organized ride, I surmised. I said hello to every goddamn one of them and, for the Tri-fags, even rang the bell. In town I came across a playlot sign proclaiming “Conor O’Rorke” to be “forever in our hearts.”

Shortly before 1pm I had another puncture. This time I found only the hole in tube and a matching one in the tire. Swapped out my last tube and was done in 10 minutes.

I braced my self for action when the Camero pulled up, but he did a three point turn and headed back the way he came. I soon realized why: the road ahead was a very coarse gravel, as was the cross road. O’Rourke Rd. would be about 3 miles of it, round trip, a tough, slow ride. Sadly, I prioritized GROP and choose to abandon the pilgrimage to my namesake road, knowing that I shall likely never again be in the position to visit it.

Looking to the north for I-88, I saw the ominous cooling towers of the Byron Nuclear Power Plant, signaling my approach to the Rock River. Ahead was another sight that no longer appears odd to me—a blackbird tormenting a red-tailed hawk.

At 2pm I was in Franklin Grove, IL. I’d done 52 miles in 3 hours and 25 minutes of actual riding time. Considering the flats, I was making good time, but still pretty far of my summer goal of a ‘decent’ ride: 50 miles in under 3 hours.

In dire need of water, I stopped in the town park which lacked fountains. Noticing some kids exiting an administrative building, I grabbed my bottles and headed inside, where 75 people were busy devouring some sort of fundraising breakfast. All eyes were upon me as I casually walked to the sink and filled up.

Wandering through the town, I overshot the road leading to the entrance of the Franklin Creek Natural Area and had to back track 2 miles. There was quite a descent into the park, which had a few picnic shelters and extensive equestrian facilities. Most of the roads were rutted, coarse gravel. The “old mill” was sort of a bust, really a re-creation. (The elevator kind of gave it away.) The paddle wheel was made entirely of steel, but produced a lovely bellowing, melodic grown.

At 3pm I had 65.5 miles and was fighting a headwind into Dixon. The only eatery open was a Thai place, not my first choice for middle Illinois, but it turned out to be quality. Fat dumplings for an appetizer, delicious iced coffee. The Panang curry was excellent except that the beef tasted bland and rubbery. Tragic, really to ruin such a carefully made sauce with inferior meat.

I stopped by the boyhood home of our 40^th President of the United States of America. He was actually born in Tampico, not far from here, but Dixon fosters a heavy rivalry over the Gipper. A hideous sculpture stands in the courtyard, which I photo’d while flipping the bird.

At 5pm I was at 80 miles and approaching the remains of the Green River Ordinance Plant, with a nice NW-W wind behind me. Redbrick Rd. turned to shit. I came across a bunker. Sticking my camera inside, I was surprised to see the flash had illuminated a piece of farm equipment. I turned onto O’Malley Rd. at the corner of which a lone resident ran into her house. South of the main bunker storage complex, I came across a simple cross bar gate with large gaps and slipped inside.

I rode up and down a few of the parallel roads. Each of the bunkers was storing equipment. Whole area seemed to be used by some sort of outfit trucking extremely explosive materials. I passed under large hopper I’m assuming is used to fill the tanker trucks.

Coming to a weed-choked impasse, I decided to turn back to find my point of entry. Moving towards it I was chagrined to see a large red pickup parked diagonally across the trail. Shit. I put on my best smile and waved as I approached.

The large man inside did not exit. “You are not authorized to be in here” he said sternly. “Did you come in through the main gate?” “Uh, I came in back there, I think” I said, pointing in no particular direction, just away from my point of entry, which was well marked with no trespassing signs. “You can’t be back here. Which way did you come in?” “Uh, well, I’m not 100%, I think it was the main gate…” I continued to play dumb. “This is Red Brick Rd., right?” I said gesturing towards O’Malley. “Oh, no… that’s O’Malley” he said softening some.

Our exchange lightened and I quickly changed the subject, explaining my ride and my hopes to see the bunkers. He nodded in understanding.

I bid him good day, quickly cursing myself for not asking about other structures in more public areas and for not recording a covert video of the exchange. Next time.

I cruised the area spotting a smokestack, but ultimately opted to investigate the mysterious, large, light colored area on the aerial images. It was the Lee County landfill. Another case solved, Sherlock Dumass.

It was getting on 6 when I left the GROP remains, 87 miles done with 6 hours in the saddle. I had slipped to a 14.2 mph average.

I was eastbound on Sterling Rd. with a killer tailwind, doing 20mph without even trying. The road was smooth, with no traffic. Everything was bathed in the warm light of the early evening. Windmills appeared ahead. I tripped 100 around 7pm.

I hit Amboy which was mostly closed and stopped into a filling station for provisions. I skipped taking off my helmet, sunglasses and camera in the interest of time and got bemused looks from the other patrons, including a weird breed of rednecky hipsters. The famous pharmacy soda fountain was closed, so I left town in a hurry, pausing to commemorate crossing the Green River.

8pm, 112.3 miles and I'm starting to ache a little. The topography around Paw Paw was rolling hills. I was 5 miles behind schedule which means I have 38 miles to do in the next 3 hours.

Somewhere along this stretch, I lost my 5 LED tail light. Luckily, I still had the Planet Bike Super Flash model, which can be seen from space. My philosophy is that you should have extra lights as to serve backups, but to use them instead of just carrying them around. I have also found that, while motorists should respect you regardless, they do more so when you are lit up crazy style, especially out in the sticks.

Will I never get to see Shabbona Lake?

Around 10:30 I was making my approach to Aurora. I took a series of out-of-the-way turns to stay on the ‘prescribed’ route, but zigged when I should have zagged and ended up doing a horrific stretch of route 30, which would have been bad enough without the moonscape pavement, heavy traffic and the road construction. After a harrowing sprint in the wrong direction, I had no alternative than to turn around and do it again.

I rode a nice little section of the Virgil Gilman trail until it abruptly ended, dumping me at a point unknown, once again proving that it’s a good idea to stick to the streets when you need to get anywhere.

Lucky for me, train stations are marked on the CBF map. I was delighted to see Walter Payton’s Roundhouse restaurant, and dismayed to find it closed. No growler for the train ride home. A crazy guy with no money was thrown off the train at the route 59 station— the last place in the world I would wish to be broke.

$5 for the weekend pass and 155 miles for the day.

T.C.

All the ride Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157601311311911/

See the Route Here

Blog Housekeeping (to avoid actual housekeeping)

2007-08-03T16:23:00.000-07:00

Hello Loyal Readers,

I’m tidying up here at Paris or Bust 2007.

First a shout out to my one and only corporate sponsor: Boulevard Bikes. My dear mate Kevin Womac has graciously donated a pair of Rivendell “Roll-y Pol-y” tires to our cause (aka my vacation.) I am touched by his generosity.

Kevin built my machine up last year, patiently answering my endless, fretting questions and meeting my every specification at a price that did not pay his rent. It has truly been a dream to ride and has brought me much joy. Nate, Doug, Adrian, Jim and John will fix your rig or assist you with purchasing a new one.

Secondly, I have added a limited list of links to relevant websites & blogs. Lawyer Jim’s unique blog mixes legal advice, alleycat racing, his recent southern tour and his Time Out Chicago delivery antics. John Greenfield’s Bars Across Americ a chronicles his cross-country tour and descent into alcoholism. The “trail” may not all be grand, but Jennifer’s Grand Illinois Trail Blog is bigger than all that and a great read to boot.

Lastly, I do appreciate all who stop by to read my self centered ramblings about my various hijinks. But a blog is a ravenous beast whose appetite for comments can never be sated. I know thinking up witty comments on the spot can be daunting (I keep a list on hand for office birthday cards,) so I offer you a generic list from which to cut and paste:

“Wow, T.C. I can’t believe you rode 62 miles in 2 hours! Those Metra trains sure are fast!”

“IMHO Ur blog is FUBAR, LOL. BBW for NSA QPTZHH, ASAP. OMG! WOOT!!”

“RE: DISCOVER CARD FSB. Mr. O’Rourke, agents from my office have made numerous attempts to reach you regarding your considerable…”

“Enlarge your Pen1s, this is the stuff Ron Jeremy uses”

Thanks for reading,

T.C.

My Aquatic Life on the Serengeti

2007-08-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

Hey, like wow, August 1. The July 1 ride was my last real dispatch, I’m 4 rides backlogged on th’ ol’ Blog. Oh dear. Too busy planning and executing rides to report on them I suppose, as I ain’t getting much else accomplished with my life.

Anyway, here’s the next Sunday in our series: July 8, 2007

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Metra was blacked out again, so I opted for the 8am Amtrak to Joliet, planning on exploring more of Midewin, the confluence of the Des Plaines and Illinois rivers and, time permitting, the area south of the Illinois, which varies from state recreational areas to strip mines.

I was half way to Union Station when I realized I had forgotten my pump; I didn’t even stop to check—I just knew. I pack by wandering around the house grabbing things at random and adding them to the pile on my living room floor, until it feels done. Ironically, I have a checklist taped to my front door for my far simpler daily routine.

A lesser man might have thought this an unfortunate event, a stroke of bad luck. But I know differently. Better to make such a realization now, than to discover the mistake attempting to fix a puncture. 22 miles from nowhere. Without any water.

I returned home and sat on the stoop with a happy dog, looking at the CBF map. No westerly route looked appealing and I realized they would have only appeared less so on the way home. I decided to venture into the Southland yet again, checking out a few places I had been forced to skip over on the last ride. I would ride south to the Old Plank Road Trail and complete it end to end. I set out south on Kedize. It was 7am.

I made a quick detour to roll through Lithuanian Plaza, 69^th Street adjacent to Marquette Park, a stretch full of private taverns and other old, white-flight holdover businesses.

Otherwise I was all business, having learned my lesson about dawdling on the last ride. By 8am I was crossing 83^rd and by 9:30 I had done 36 miles at a cruising average of 13.8 (not too shabby) to be at the eastern end of the Old Plank Road Trail. The OPRT offered some relief from the southwest wind and is an A-1 trail as they go. I stopped for some farmer’s market kettle corn in Frankfort, and munched on it while rolling down the path, leaving a trail of it behind me.

I had ridden the trails 20 miles (I only counted 18) by 11am and immediately headed on to Joliet to see about a return ticket. Things had heated up and upon reaching the train station I pounded two 20oz sodas—not such a good idea in retrospect. I stumbled into the super-cooled Amtrak lobby and stood at the desk to secure my passage home. Out of sight, two employees were engaged in casual banter and did not respond to my persistent hello’s —although they were no more than 15’ away. Eventually they appeared, acting as if they’d never heard me. “Welcome to Amtrak: How May We Delay You?”

I completed my business and headed out to explore a few Joliet destinations.

First up was the Joliet Ironworks, along side a short paved segment of the Illinois and Michigan Canal Trail. Not much remains of the remains, but it gave me a sort of pueblo cliff dweller vibe and had some left leaning plaques abut the hard lives of the people who worked there.

From the ruins I spied my next destination: Joliet Prison. Did you know it was designed by William W. Boyington who did the Water Tower on Michigan Avenue? Ah, those were the days, where even prisons would be designed by a prominent architect! I was a little disappointed to see that the door Jake exited as been long since fenced over.

For some odd reason I skipped over several fine taquerias and ended up at a lousy Dairy Queen on the outskirts of town. I sat at a picnic table, slowly broiling my brain in the sun as I choked down a Grade-D hot dog, my appetite suppressed by the extreme heat.

I picked up the Wauponsee Glacial Trail (PDF) and headed south to Midewin. The limestone trail was dry and gritty, covering my bike and legs with a fine white dust. The white reflected the heat and an almost blinding light. Will County’s Sugar Creek Administration Center offered a water source, but the ‘environmentally friendly’ design (surrounded by a sea of asphalt) offered not a lick of shade for the weary traveler.

Pushing on, I passed Route 66 speedway and the Manhattan Metra station and exiting the trail at Hoff Rd. where I turned directly into a fierce west wind. I limped along, sometimes as slowly as 8mph, exhausted, hungry and dehydrated. I fantasized about the lovely, shady spot in the park where I would nap.

Finally arriving at the park, I found my dream spot on Turtle Pond where I collapsed and dozed off with a cup of coffee in my hand. When I awoke, a Kingfisher was sitting in the tree in front of me.

I put on 10 tough miles wandering around the park, riding further and further down the increasingly ridiculous-bad trails, until I came to a locked gate blocking the rail crossing over Route 53. I turned back on another trail, using a weighted, self closing gate to enter and exit a cattle grazing area. Perched a top a bunker, baking in the sun, I surveyed my Serengeti like surroundings and realized how cool this place it.

The old munitions buildings, the bunkers, the roads returning to nature, the empty vastness, but more than anything the car-freeness. By bike is the only way to really see this place. Two trips in two consecutive weeks and I could think only of my next visit.

The song remains the same. Screw around too long and race for the train. Oh, T.C., will you never learn?

On my last trip I had noted that Route 53 wasn’t as bad as I’d remembered from my marathon St. Louis trip in ’03, during which it had literally thrown me into an irrational, profanity screaming rage. This time around the section I took matched my memory— concrete segmented with large jarring cracks every 10’ and roaring traffic. I finished the last of my water. The wind had shifted hard out of the south and I was pulling 22 with a little effort, but lightheaded confusion was setting in.

I veered into the first gas station and lost control of the front end, bouncing hard off my hands but landing on my feet. My front tire was way soft. I walked right into the locked doors and had to complete my dazed transaction for Gatorjuice through the ghetto style glass turnstile. I didn’t even wait for my change. I pounded it, producing an almost immediate stomach cramp, then put some air in my tire and jumped back on the death-route.

For all my drama in getting there, the train was late. I should have called. We sat on the platform listening to the folks at Silver Cross Field drinking beer and cheering. When the train arrived we crabby passengers were informed we would be utilizing the Rock Island line tracks, which we did at about 35mph, and which was followed by a triple backup track maneuver to pull into Union Station. Luckily for the other passengers, I had a pair of seats to my tired, sweat stained, reeking self.

When I returned home I had only 113 miles for the day, weighed 7 lbs less and was slurring my speech.

T.C.

Onwards to the Concurrence of our Ramblings

2007-07-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

July 26^th, 2007

Chicago, Illiniois

Dear Mr. Greenfield,

It is with great joy I receive your letter of July 6, 2007. I pray your travels across the Northwest Territory have continued unabated and you should not run afoul of savages or road agents.

My own arduous journey across the prairie and back shall take place on Sunday July 29, 2007. I shall depart the beach-house at North Av. at the stroke of midnight. It is my sincerest desire to gaze upon the great Mississippi river and yet return to the beach-house before the witching hour, achieving 275 miles within the 24 hour mark.

Again, our agreed upon rendezvous should be lunch at the Blue Café, located at 321 Main St., Savanna IL, at 12 noon.

I shall expend much effort to keep our appointment but must fair warn you of the considerable variables which may have some effect on my estimated time of arrival.

Firstly, fatigue. I expect I should ride stronger for the first half of the ride than the later half, perhaps arriving as much as an hour earlier and leaving myself an hour more for the noon-time dinner and return ride.

Secondly, wind-field. The predominant patterns are westerly; should I find myself in the teeth of a severe head-wind, it might delay me as much as 2 hours. Contrary-wise, such a tailwind might advance me by just as much.

Thirdly, other atmospheric conditions. I may be delayed by rains, hail or extreme heat.

Therefore, should I not appear at the prescribed time, I encourage you to embark upon your own journey in the hopes that our paths should cross at a later point(s).

In addition to the above, you may wish to consider these other factors:

Route. In the interest of expediency, IL 64 will encompass the entirety of my route. This design will limit wrong turns, time spent studying maps and encounters with road surfaces not suitable for bi-cycles. Unfortunately, these same qualities render this roadway appealing to motorists.

Speed. My strategy involves a 14mph overall cruising speed and 4 hours worth of intermittent rests. You may find this pace unappealing.

Cargo. I shall be carrying only the essentials of tools, provisions and outerwear. My load contrasts heavily with your own burden of a full-capacity, cross-country tourist.

None the less, I look forward to our encounter and rally you to our engagement on the banks of the Mississippi.

Fraternally yours,

T.C. O’Rourke

--- John Greenfield wrote:

> Meeting up in Savanna at noon on Sun. 7/29 will work

> perfectly.

> I'll try to ride at least part of the trip home with

> you.

> Cheers,

> John

Back in the Saddle Again

2007-07-11T16:01:00.001-07:00

I had a big day planned of Sunday, July 1st. 150+ miles and several fabulous destinations, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Excitement, I expect. Getting up absurdly early Sunday has become a regular occurrence, but it seems odd to call being on the road at 7am a late start.

WTTW did a program once about IL 1. They drove from downstate to Chicago, covering the spectrum of our state, from the bookwavers to the Pride parade. Having missed the television broadcast, I decided to do the next best thing: check it out for real.

I shot out of the city on Halsted St. Greektown, the new cookie cutter Maxwell Street, elderly Asian ladies shielding their faces from the sun with baseball caps in Bridgeport. A quick photo at the Stockyards. Englewood. West Pullman. And over the Little Calumet.

It felt good to be back a-wheel.

I didn’t see Archie and the gang in Riverdale, but I got caught by a freight train for 15 minutes. Competing varieties of gospel music blared from the open windows of the queued cars.

My route would take me near Glenwood and Mt. Glenwood cemetery, final resting place of Marshall "Major" Taylor. He seems to be enjoying a renaissance as of late, with numerous articles in publication recently and the “official” (ie final) opening of the south side trail bearing his name. I had neglected to note it’s location and with the mileage on the plate today I was sure he’d forgive me for not visiting.

“But what if it was just around the corner?” I thought, making a sudden left on Volmer Rd. The name “Glenwood” wasn’t on the map, so how big could the town be?

I asked directions of the gents manning the recycling drop off center, where people motor over their trash to feel like they’re “environmentalists.” The cemetery was only a half mile away, but on the other side of the forest preserve, requiring a 4 mile loop north. No problem. I followed their instructions, but could not recall the final street in the series and guessed wrong, ending up south of where I started on Joe Orr Rd.

Heading further east to take another pass, I turned north on Cottage Grove. Correct street, wrong cemetery, aptly named “Assumption”. Undeterred, I pressed on.

I asked a municipal worker near Jurgensen Woods. He could cite no street names, just navigation via landmark: the traffic light, the tracks, the bridge. I disregarded the road closed signs on Thorn Creek and the rocks in the exposed roadbed grew from fist size to head size. Eventually I was ‘out of the woods’ and into Thornton. A quarry seemed an unlikely neighbor to a cemetery, but a quarter-mile later, there it was.

“Worlds champion bicycle racer who came up the hard way without hatred in his heart, an honest, courageous, and God-fearing, clean-living, gentlemanly athlete. A credit to his race who always gave out his best. Gone but not forgotten.”

The plaque was installed in 1948 by a group of retired racers and the Schwinn Company. They also exhumed and relocated his remains from a pauper’s grave.

The excursion had added 12 miles and killed over an hour and a half. I tired of the traffic on Halsted, so I took the back-roads to check out the Thorn Creek South Trail. The pavement went from bad to worse to non existent so I bailed and jumped on the CBF recommended route southbound. Soon the smell of burning leaves marked my exit from civilization.

It was about 11am and I’d done 50 miles, but I should have done 70 with the tailwind I was enjoying. Now off the CBF map, I checked out the IDOT bike map's recommendation, Western Av., which was flanked by cornfields. The previous day Daisy and I had accompanied my friend Ruth Welte for a few miles as she walked the length of the city on Western Av. for an upcoming feature in Time Out Chicago. It will be interesting to see if she encountered any agriculture.

I backtracked to Ashland which was vastly more pleasant. (I’ll never understand those folks at IDOT.) I made my way south through the street-per-mile grid, on other north-south streets also bearing their familiar city names until the Will-Cook county line. I slowly gained on a cyclist in the distance.

His name was John, of University Park, employed in Morris at a Coal Burning Power Plant, to which, once in a great while, he commutes by bike. Much of the ride is I&M Canal Trail. He said at times the insects are so thick along the stagnant canal, he wears a head net.

John accompanied me for a while, guiding us to the better roads and even being sport enough jog over to Momence, where he used to play country music at the Budweiser Inn. I went looking for provisions while he soaked his feet a bit in the Kankakee River. We then doubled back along the scenic river road, doing another 10 miles before parting ways at Aroma Park, just outside of Kankakee, home of former Governor George Ryan.

From Chicago, Kankakee is 55 miles as-the-crow-drives. I had budgeted 60 miles of my 150 for the day. When I hit town I was at 95. Given that my tailwind would soon be a headwind, I knew there would be hell to pay for my earlier indiscretions.

Regardless, I have sworn to eat only quality vittles on these trips from now on, so I set about finding a proper eatery. Two good looking diners downtown were closed. I just couldn’t abide the hot dog stand that served no fries. The DQ served only iced cream. Pizza by the slice, closed. Another fantastic looking home cooking joint, closed. Another location of the fri-less hotdog franchise.

I was getting dizzy, tired and crabby when I happened upon JR’s Chicken. The girl was mildly rude, the sides small and I wished I’d noticed the buffet before I’d ordered carry out, but the fried chicken was truly stellar.

Fully sated I began trekking northwest along the river, to my next destination: Kankakee River State Park. Once there I jumped between the crushed limestone trail and park roads, checking out various campgrounds. Quite a nice park. After a few miles the 10 mile trail became paved and I followed it to its terminus.

Reviewing my trip, I see that there is also a KRSP just across the Indiana border. Damn. It would have been pretty cool to hit them both, but I was already in over my head.

Next up was my attempt to connect with the Wauponsee Glacial Trail. The IDOT map showed it as ‘proposed’ reaching the Kankakee River, as do the Will county maps. I now know it extends further south than the ‘existing trail’ is shown, but I was unable to locate it and ended up taking route 53 through Wilmington to my next and most exiting destination: Midewin National Tallgrass Prairie.

Midewin is the former site of the Joliet Arsenal, 19,000 acres of land fenced off during WW II, the land to keep the general public away from the production of TNT. To give you an idea, an explosion in 1942 killed 40 workers and broke out windows in downtown Aurora— 30 miles away.

I arrived at the park headquarters only to find it closed, but with enough employee presence as to prevent my typical fence hopping. I backtracked to South Arsenal Rd. and headed east, encountering one locked gate after another. Finally, I rolled up on locked gate with two dudes on mountain bikes on the inside looking out. At a debriefing, I learned that the south section of the park was no longer open to the public. They helped me slip my bike under the fence and we rode a bit chatting about the park.

To be clear, there isn’t much prairie at the Tallgrass Prairie. Much of it is leased as farm land, there’s some industrial development, a landfill, numerous small cemeteries and the munitions plants and bunkers. None the less it is an amazing place and I took numerous photos of the aging structures and weed choked roads during my unfortunately brief ride across it.

It was now about 8:45pm, sunset and I had 145 miles on my legs. It was time to get serious. I wrote out a detailed route, donned the reflective vest, fired up my five lights and hit the unsigned road.

Some months back my friend Shawn Greene gave me a few Songs: Ohia recordings. It took a few listenings before I got into them, but I had the song “The Farewell Transmission” repeating in my mind all day, its lyrics becoming increasingly personal:

The real truth about it is
my kind of life's no better off
If I've got the maps or if I'm lost…

I didn’t start out from where I thought, so I guess I wasn’t on my route to begin with. No matter, I remained on a northeast course, left-right turning until I found my streets. Road construction forced me to quickly abandon the route (I’d learned to heed the road closed signs.) Fireworks shot up to the left and right, like coded signals between parties miles apart.

I took a short spin on the Old Plank Road Trail, which I had intended to follow in its entirety before overextending my mileage forced me on a more direct course. I’ve done portions of the OPRT in the past; it’s wide, paved the full length and the cross streets signed. It passes through some nice wetlands and suffers only the occasional road crossing. It was nice to get away from the numerous oncoming idiots who felt the need to illuminate me with their high-beams.

The real truth about it is
there ain't no end to the desert I'll cross
I've really known that all along…

I exited the trail and rolled up on a series of Lincoln highway strip malls. By some miracle, one of those Republican Gubernatorial Candidate franchise iced-cream shops was open late, where I purchased another food item I’d been seeking: a malt. Outrageously priced at $5, it was pretty damn good.

My good fortune continued finding the next street in our series, Wolf Rd. at the first intersection. 108^th was another casualty of road construction so worked my way up Wolf to the vast, pitch black forest preserves of Palos, where I hit a pothole so hard the mirror flew off my visor. (I found it in the road before it—and/or I— was crushed by the next speeding motorist.)

Mama
here comes midnight
with the dead moon in its jaws..

171 is the most direct route from the Joliet area, but I opted to pass few nasty stretches of lousy pavement and bad sightlines. The real obstacle, however, is the interchange with the 294 toll-way, Where several lanes of 70 mph traffic cross each other.

I’ve been on some pretty hairy roads in my time, even riding illegally on the interstate, but this exchange is hands down thee most dangerous place I have ever ridden a bicycle.

Fortunately there exists an alternative, albeit a somewhat tricky trespass: Jedle's Pass.

1) Get yourself onto the I&M Canal Trail near Willow Springs.
2) Follow it north until the turn around at the overpass of La Grange Rd. (US 45)
3) Cross the train tracks to your right (northeast) and cut through the trailer park.
4) Ride northeast on Testa Dr., which is a loop through the trailer park.
5) Exit the park 79th St. which runs parallel to 171/Archer.

From here I it was smooth sailing into the city, where I stopped in Garfield Ridge to satisfy one last craving: couple of carne asada tacos.

202 miles for the day, 19 hours out, 15 in the saddle.

T.C.

See all the Ride Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600783052907/

See the general route here

Confessions of an Unredeemed Distance Addict

2007-06-28T17:52:00.000-07:00

Well, my all-night hijinx appear to have caught up with me in the most bitter of all ironies—the summertime cold. I laid about this past weekend, sleeping and eating, hoping to stave it off, but to no avail. Yesterday was the worst, I feel now as if I am on the mend.

It was first time in 9 consecutive weekends of riding, I went nowhere. Since the 200 KM brevet, I have logged a minimum of 90 and maximum 484 miles (four days) each weekend, totaling 1958 miles. Since Easter, I have averaged 163 miles each week and 202 in the last 9 weeks—the bulk in single outings, the rest in riding to them. None of this includes my 50+ miles of weekday commuting, errands, etc.

Without my weekly excursion, my legs feel listless. I pour over maps, making plans for every weekend through December. I fantasize about quitting my job, selling my house, giving away my possessions and just… riding.

Cold or no, I must wander this weekend.

I have become a mileage junkie.

T.C.

Wetlands Research Project

2007-06-25T17:35:00.001-07:00

I decided to take a weekend off.

Yes. A chance to heal up some of the chronic aches that annoy me until mile 50 and the true pains that flare up at mile 200. ‘You will not lose your form in a single week’ I told myself. The round-trip to the company outing at Ravinia Sunday night (06/17) would be 50 miles, more than enough. Yes indeed.

I half believed it all, until I packed a thermos full of coffee. After that, I just hoped the wine and Brazilian music would lull me into a drowsiness that would thwart my crazy plan.

But first was an overdue visit to the Womac/Furlong residence to meet new arrival Hazel.

The Fiestas Puertorriqueñas is in full effect, so I thought I would stoke the fire with some Jibaritos from Borinquen on California Av. in Humboldt Park.

En route, I rolled through some glass at the end of my block and instinctively knew I’d caught a flat, my rear tire is being quite low on tread with my recent surge in mileage. A few blocks later my suspicions were confirmed as the bike sagged around a corner, but I managed to limp along to the restaurant before I needed to stop. I had the duel misfortune of being unable to find the offending shard and breaking the nut off spare tube #1. Hence I started my adventure with only one spare tube —punctured— and a %50 chance of a repeat flat.

I arrived at Karen & Kevin’s with a fried feast: steak, pork and ham Jibaritos; buckets of Arroz Amarillo; Mofongo; Tostones; and cans of Guava juice. Hazel, 2 ½ weeks, hung out in the sling, when Kevin wasn’t performing the “football hold” with her. Karen nursed and dug in the garden.

The only bright side of my second flat was the smug sense of an excellent “bike intuition.” This time around I could find neither the cause of the deflation or even the puncture itself. Kevin gave me loaner tube and I was on my way.

I was running rather late on account of these punctures and abandoned my plan to ride up on the winding North Branch Trail, opting for a speedier and more direct route. I cut over to Pulaski/Crawford to Grosse Point to Ridge and Old Green Bay. I spied a tunnel at Willow Rd. and crossed to the east side of the Union Pacific tracks just in time for the lamest parts of the Green Bay Trail. Someday I will note where all of the suck sections are.

I arrived at Ravinia with 22 miles and coincidentally ran into Mike and Dave. We laughed a bit and discussed the last brevet. Then I moved on to the work picnic, chatting and drinking, noshing, and eying with contempt the significant others of my numerous workplace crushes.

By 11pm I was back on the road, flying past the mile long queue of expressway bound cars on Lake Cook Rd., carefully avoiding the occasional sudden, frustrated U-turns. I was just as relieved not to be corralled on the Metra with the drunken mass of train newbies. If ever there was a time and place for a bike…

I crossed U.S. 41 and opted to avoid the Skokie Valley Bikeway, instead snaking up a series of lesser-streets to Half Day Rd.—what I thought was the southern terminus of the Lake County section of the Des Plaines River Trail. (The trail has been extended south to at least Lake Cook Rd. and I have switched to a more recent map.) Tonight’s goal would be to ride the entirety of this crushed-limestone trail.

After a few miles west on Half Day, I jumped on an east-west sidepath near the river and immediately stopped at two odd structures (scroll down to page 6). Both were log cabin style, lodge like and accessible only from the trail and boarded up tight. The downside of solo traveling is being unable to breach such buildings as this should never be done alone.

34 miles and I was northbound on the trail. I’ve been here twice before, but never reaching the northern terminus. It’s quite pleasant as 85% of the Des Plains is forest preserves, largely due to the river’s shallowness and large flood plain making it unusable for industry. It crisscrosses the river in long, uninterrupted runs thanks to numerous underpasses. My only complaint is the tiny size of the signs posted at the many forks, the ½” lettering requiring a stop at every juncture.

I followed the trail, lights on, winding sharply through dark woods and cutting across cold foggy meadows filled by a thousand fireflies. Some of the bridge underpasses are so low you duck in fear. Loose gravel fills the water-worn grooves on the sloping sections, sending you into a slushy fishtail right when you’re riding the fastest. Despite the dampness, the bike and I were soon covered in a fine white grit.

At one crossing, I spied what was once the world’s largest wooden rollercoaster. You would think I’d be used to this by now, but stumbling across the landmarks of my childhood while cycling thrills me to the core. As a kid, the trip to “Great America” seemed an endless, mind numbing drive. Although I know better the distances involved and an hour of travel is now bearable, the years I spent traversing the suburbs via backseat have left their mark.

It was getting late, but I made minimal stops and kept pressing north. At 2:15 am and mile 66, I reached the trails end at Sterling Lake, less than a mile from Wisconsin. I unwittingly came within feet of tagging the boarder when Russell Rd. curved north, but since following the winding trail is further than riding to the border direct, I have no regrets about not crossing the threshold. Mission accomplished.

Now I needed to make some time. I shot southward on a series of Irish named streets to the east of the river: Kilbourne, Delaney/Delany, O’Plaine, St. Marys.

On stretches near the trail, I started noticing signs prohibiting riding of bicycles 3 or more abreast, one following each innocuous “Share the Road.” It amazes me that a municipality can post a sign chastising cyclists for rude behavior more specific in instruction and in language more stern than the one posted for the dangerous behavior of motorists. Of course, they can’t help the fact that there exists no law dictating a safe passing distance they might cite.

Pulling under a streetlamp I was treated to another odd sight: hundreds of Cicadas, moaning low, crawling and rolling around the pavement. I shot this video, which I cannot figure out how to post here in the blogoshphere. I nearly dropped the camera afterwards while swiping at the bloodthirsty locusts crawling up my legs.

After 6 am and I’m back in the city, repeating the suggested route aloud to keep on course: Canfield to Higgins to Foster to Central to Montrose. I rode all the streets, but somehow in a different order. I think I took California Av. south, getting in just after 7 am.

117 miles for the trip, so you understand why I took the train to work.

T.C.

A Lovely Day for A Bicycle Ride

2007-06-22T21:25:00.000-07:00

We last left our hero gloriously having completed 376 miles in less than 38 hours…

I awoke to knocking at the door. 11am. Housekeeping. “Not yet” I managed with some effort. She went away.

I slept about 12 solid hours. I took a long hot shower and moved slowly about the room gathering my things for the next hour. Picked up the greasy wrappers from a less than stellar victory meal. No alcohol sales after 9pm on Sundays, so no hangover.

After a heartfelt goodbye to the Super 8 employees, complete with promises of postcards from Paris, I began my journey… to the Delavan Family Restaurant, where I would have a decent meal (for once.) I opted to read the local-local paper from the preceding Thursday, dominated by the city council meeting concerning the road construction and minute details of the graduating class of 2007. I wouldn’t read the details of the horrific murder-suicide the night before, which had put this sleepy town in national headlines.

1:00 pm and I was on the road to Harvard. I did a careful inventory as I rode: bit of stiffness in my knees and ache in my elbow, some soreness in my hands and feet, but nothing that didn’t work itself out in the 20 miles to the train station.

Checking the schedule, I was dismayed to learn that the next train was 2 ½ hours off. I thought about sitting it out in the tavern or finding a shady spot to read. But the sun was shinning… a light breeze blew from the west… it was just the perfect day…

For a bike ride!

I had been quite concerned about riding 20 miles to the train the day after the 600 KM, but now I must tell you the truth: if I had known just how good I would feel afterwards, I would have saved myself $100 and ridden to the train that evening. Huzzah!

First order of business was procuring a suitable map, which I would find at the first filling station. At the ridiculously large scale of 1 ½” to the mile, it would need to be refolded on the handlebar bag every 20 minutes and could tell a man everything he ever wanted to know about McHenry County. Needless, I used it to wander the county roads, eventually ending up on IL120 and stopping to inspect some Cicadas.

I spun around downtown McHenry, IL a bit, birthplace of my stepmother. From there I jumped on the Prairie Trail, lesser known pathway running from the northern end of the Fox River Trail into Wisconsin and not to be confused with the Prairie Path. This state seems so desperate to name everything after the landscape it totally obliterated.

The last time I rode this section of trail was 2000(?) Back then I did it on a trip to Fox Lake, on a bikes-on-Metra pilot program, when bike access was but a dream.

A short paved section of trail just north of Crystal Lake features some steep rolling hills and sharp corners, riding like a roller coaster.

I got into Elgin and thought about continuing, but the pain in my toes had started to flare up and the dog was expecting me, so I bought some tall boys and boarded the 1^st train home.

74 miles for a lazy summer day.

T.C.

Most Humble Thanks

2007-06-19T13:30:00.001-07:00

Before I return you to our regularly scheduled program, "Tomfoolery Towards Paris," I would like to take a moment to express my gratitude to more than a few individuals.

Thanks to all who have e-mailed and called with their support and good natured ribbing. Double thanks to those who have done so via “comments.” I am delighted that so many friends, old and new, near and far, have supported me in my endeavor.

Thanks to Mike at Cal’s for encouragement, advice, goo and keeping me on course in the middle of the night, in rural Wisconsin after 22 hours and 235 miles.

Thanks to Julie & crew (Ben, Ben, Snacks) for sharing hotel costs, the ride up & back, and general support. It was fun hanging with everyone, let us not become strangers!

Thanks to The Great Lakes Randonneurs for organizing a world class brevet series through scenic southern Wisconsin and to all my fellow members for their advice, insights and camaraderie.

Thanks to my riding buddies Lauren, Adrian, Lawyer Jim and Greenfield for accompanying me (or allowing me to accompany them) on rides, be they brevet, midnight rambles or camping excursions.

Finally thanks to all who have watched Daisy Dog in my absence: my roommate Steve; Lawyer Jim; and, most particularly Bob Matter, who has house/dog-sat more times than I can recall— sometimes not even receiving a cold beer or clean towel for his effort. Without their help I could not disappear for days at a stretch to pursue my own warped dream, knowing that the hound is in good hands.

My unlimited Love to you all,

T.C.

P.S. Bad Dog!!

That's SUPER, Randonnuer (but don't let it go to your head)

2007-06-15T15:40:00.001-07:00

I kind of forgot exactly which side of Union Station the Van Galder picks up, but I found it with 4 minutes to spare. I loaded my bike into the luggage area, partly for expedience sake and partly hoping not to be charged. It sort of worked, but it’s long story involving driver neglecting to fully close the baggage compartment door until we were outside of Rockford and waiving the $10 bike fee to avoid a paper trial of the blunder, I suspect.

The fare was $25—many times the Metra to Harvard, which zipped passed us as we slowly swam along the traffic of the Interstate. I’ve noticed modern bus lines tend to avoid the downtown areas of all but the biggest cities, stopping instead at odd malls and filling stations on the fringe of town, so I didn’t get to see much of Janesville.

I had stupidly left my Wisconsin Bike Fed map (as well as the CBF map) at home (Rule #1: you can never have too many maps.) I also left the mapquest directions to the motor-lodge on the printer. Regardless, I had plenty of time and it was a loverly day, so I blindly set out on a course parallel to U.S. 14. I decided to make a 5 mile detour to visit Carvers Rock County Park. I didn’t find the “Historic Gravesite” but ended up on some scenic hilly rural roads, where some smart-ass highway workers had worked out the equation pictured right.

After 34 leisurely miles I arrived at the Super-eight. A man stormed out of the office incensed over the high-season rates. Fight the power brother, but I had no alternative but the pay the near $100 per night. I left a note for the organizers at the front desk detailing some road closures, laid about my supercooled room and was asleep by 8pm.

Saturday June 9. Up at 4:45. Showered. Sunscreen and ointments. Registration. Breakfast. Chatted. Stretched. At 6am the 16 or so of us were off.

I paired up with Ken for awhile. “I wonder what the people in these towns do” he wondered aloud as we passed through suburban Edgerton. We speculated on their livelihoods and the local economy. This in mind, I procured some locally produced snack food items at the first checkpoint, Landjagers and strawberry licorice, both rather fresh and excellent.

We caught up with Mike and Dave in New Glarus just long enough to say hello.

In Sauk City I was famished and ate two “hoagies,” rather suspicious looking oval shaped hamburgers from under the heat lamp. This was a major mistake, I felt like puking all through the hills to Baraboo. Finally, I stopped to lie in the grass for a while, in a light sleep even, until Ken caught up.

I rolled into Lodi with the wind at a dead calm and met up with Mike, Dave, Johnny (from Turin,) and Bill. I departed with them dusk was soon upon us. We tripped 186 miles, the halfway point en route to Sun Prairie, where I was quite pleased with myself to have caught up with Jim, Thomas and another rider.

I reapplied the ointment… Ok. I have been less than forward with you until this point, but we must discuss the reality of the leather chamois. It is mandatory that the padding in my shorts be greased in some fashion, to prevent chaffing, so I apply petroleum jelly to them as well as my ‘sit bones’ and other sensitive parts. Hey, if slathering my ass with Vaseline makes me less of a red blooded hetero male, then… uh, well… well it just DOSEN’T ok?

A graduation kegger bonfire beckoned, so sweet the bare shoulder sirens I nearly missed a turn. I rode ahead a bit to trip 200 miles at the 18 hour mark. The same damn bumps jarring the same damn pains on the approach to Edgerton, where the need for warm food reduced us to the MacDonnald’s drive-thru.

Bill was wired on caffeine pills, talking a mile a minute. It was hard to hold it against him, as he had apologized in advance. Mike and Dave (and Ken, somewhere behind us) had all gotten less than 2 hours of sleep the night before, per usual. Myself, I was plodding along wearily, the wrapped haystacks looking like giant pillows. I’d nod off, snap to with a swerve and ride on the adrenaline for a few minutes. We hit the motel, 250 miles in 23.5 hours, an hour-fifteen improvement over the last brevet and another personal best.

The coming of the dawn had helped a bit with the sleepiness, but I decided to abandon my plan to ride straight through, opting for 1 ½ hours of blissful sleep on the conference room couch.

Sunday June 10. The nap made all the difference. I departed with Jim, Thomas and Johnny at 8 am sharp. I didn’t expect to keep up and didn’t, but the roads were pleasant, the weather beautiful and my spirits high.

The route for the last 126 miles traversed entirely new terrain, not far from Kettle Moraine. A few folks had warned me of some hills in the first leg, the largest of which was a steep valley of Sugar River, where I hit 42.7 mph on the descent. The roar of the Cicadas was incredible here, like police sirens, a drum corps and heavy machinery at once.

I ate an omelet sandwich outside the East Troy checkpoint and hit the road fast. Somewhere in the next leg I passed Bill heading back, about 30 miles ahead of me having forgone sleep. He appeared lucid.

At the Whitewater checkpoint, I came across a rider with a broken spoke, tire rubbing the frame. The wheel was a shop loaner and the deep V made the nipples inaccessible. He was a mere 45 miles from the finish, but not planning on going to Paris. “Now I get to go drink beer” he smiled viewing the bright side.

Closer to the halfway point were Johnny, Thomas and Jim on their return. It was all business at the half way mark, the checkpoint in Jefferson. 3 miles back out I encountered Mike and Dave, who had opted for an 8am wake-up call. Some time later I swapped shouts of encouragement with Tom and Alan.

Bluff Rd. was particularly a scenic 8 mile stretch of two lane blacktop, with picturesque farms and Georgian style brick homes. It was here that I broke my longstanding St. Louis to Chicago record of 334 miles in just over 35 hours, tripping a mile over in over an hour less: 335 in <34>

There are numerous variables to consider in comparing the rides. This ride was rather hilly, while that one was almost entirely flat. This was a loop and that was one way with a wind advantage. For this I have trained, for that I just jumped on the bike. Balmy June vs. freezing November. A cat nap vs. no sleep. 30 lb bike vs. 17 lb bike. 27 gears vs. 1 fixed.

Ultimately, I rate the St. Louis ride as vastly more difficult due to simple geometry. A touring bike aims to suspend you in the most comfortable position possible to coax the miles out of your body. Sitting on track bike is the like crouch of a cat pouncing ceaselessly. The fact that I could even attempt an additional 40 miles, was proof enough. The day after St. Louis, I hardly got out of bed. May it stand as my most difficult ride forever and all time.

Back through East Troy, I headed for the hills. I had been riding conservatively all day awaiting them, but they were not as fierce as I had remembered. When I climbed out of the Sugar River Valley I was high as a kite. A warm wind came up behind me, caressing my twitchy legs and adding miles to the speedometer.

My feet were screaming, but I didn’t care; I smelled blood. For the first time in all four brevets, I kicked it into the large chainring. I hung in the drops, head down, sweat steadily streaming from the tip of my nose. 16, 18, 20 mph. OK, OK, OK, was repeatedly spray painted along the shoulder as if the road was crying uncle. I did a 7 mile straightaway in 25 minutes.

7 miles. 4.5 miles. 3.5 miles. Approaching Delavan. I see the giant ocho, there, in the distance. Motherfucking stoplight. I coast into the parking lot and practically into the lobby for my last stamp. 376 miles. Final time: 37 hours and 47 minutes.

I am a Super Randonnuer. I am qualified for P-B-P. I am going to Paris.

T.C.

Additional Photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600368657059/

A Brief History of Ride

2007-06-08T08:14:00.000-07:00

Ok. We’re in real time, people. I catch the Van Galder bus to Janesville, WI, in 15 minutes. Metra’s Bluesfest Blackout, mind you. From there it’s a 21 mile ride.

In preparation for tomorrows event, a brief history of my long distance bicycling.

1996—I can remember my first long ride. From my apartment at Broadway-Clark-Diversey all the way up to Lawrence Av. and back. When I tell people at work they cannot believe the distance —15miles.

1997—Long forays into the suburbs hugging the curbs of major highways in insane Saturday afternoon traffic. I stop into work and loudly announce I have been to Wisconsin and back—ON MY BIKE!! I complete my first century—the Harmon 100—on a mountain bike with knobbies.

1999-2001—I ditch the Rockhopper for a marginally better machine—a Bianchi Pista (an off the shelf track bike.) The night rides begin. Somewhere the 120 mile threshold is crossed.

2002—Ridding buddy Craig Ludington accompanies me on a 170 mile/17 hour Peoria to Chicago ride. Weary and confused, we eat MacDonald’s in Joilet, only to find 3 dozen taquerias immediately around the corner. In September, Greenfield and I ride 420 miles from the Rosemont Blue line to St. Paul, MN. 143-156-91-30 are our insanely long 3.5 days over Wisconsin. Here I perfect my patented sitting on the crosstube at 33mph maneuver, as the fixed gear has the cranks spinning faster than I can keep up with bombing the hills of Baraboo. We arrive to Pro Bike/Pro Walk as gods.

2003—An attempt to ride non-stop from St. Louis with Adrian Redd and Grant Davis is thwarted by my most spectacular motor-vehicle collision ever, over the hood, off the windshield and onto my head. The next month, I do the trip solo to ‘celebrate’ my 30^th birthday. Late November and my water bottles freeze solid—I thaw them in my pants. I push through incredible knee pain for the last 50 miles, track bike as torture rack. A 14 mile mistake puts me at 334 miles in just under 36 hours.

2004 to present—nothin’ much.

This weekend is the longest ride I have ever attempted.

I am anxious and afraid.

May God have mercy upon my soul.

T.C.

Southland Adventure (aka the Case of the Phantom Pile)

2007-06-06T13:02:00.001-07:00

Lawyer Jim has been looking to do some night riding, so we hatched a plan for a Sunday night/Monday morning thing this past weekend. Negotiations regarding a starting time were tense, but fruitful. He would work his regular Sunday shift at Boulevard & then teach his wheel building class, I would arise Sunday evening and go to work Monday morning. Ultimately, I don’t know which of us suffered more.

I ate a breakfast of three soft boiled eggs—a treat since I have been eating 3 a day sans yolks—and my new secret weapon: oatmeal with peanut butter and honey. The concoction was delicious and kept me going for several hours, a thousand thank yous to my roommate Steve for the recipe.

After some final scrambling, we departed my house at 11:15 in the PM and shot straight down Kedzie Av. Our first stop would be the Evergreen Park of Evergreen Park, IL bordered by Chicago on 3 sides and home of the world’s most famous arnarcho-primitivist. Anyway, I’ve always noticed this diamond shaped park on the map and meant to check it out. An uneventful visit, though the grid interruption set us in the wrong direction twice.

Next was a visit to Tally’s Corner, a Chicago neighborhood at Pulaski and 103^rd, adjacent to Xavier University. The greedy nuns at the Sisters of Mercy sold off the land to developers in the early 1980’s who built 146 brick homes for Cops, Firefighters and other City employees who are required by law to live in the city and flock to its furthest extremities. Also uneventful.

We made a stop in Alsip, at the locked gates of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, wherein lies the final resting place of a dictator of unimaginable power, matched only by that of his son. We would have to find some other place to piss. Zero for three.

Things were looking grim when we doubled back in an attempt to find the entrance to our fourth destination, Bachelor’s Grove cemetery in Midlothian. However, we found the angled entrance off the Midlothian Turnpike and followed the broken asphalt path deep into the woods. The abandoned burial ground was worth the trip, eerie and full of busted graves from the 1920’s. This one was covered with trinkets. The inscription on the stone in the foreground read simply “INFANT DAUGHTER.”

Preparing to leave, we were startled by an approaching flashlight. The sway was a little too erratic to be a cops swaggering, but had us nervous none the less. At about 50 feet, I hit them with the cateye. Some hushed anxious murmuring was quickly followed by a hearty hello. After some pleasantries at a distance, they asked about the location of the cemetery, to which we guided them.

They were twentysomethings, considerably older that we thought when we had passed them walking along the road a mile back. Neither were they Goths dressed all in black (the darkness can really mess with your mind.) A cheerful trio of characters akin to a modern Scooby Doo Gang: the pretty southern belle; the charming hipster boyfriend; the mutton chopped gentle giant. They asked us if we had seen the disappearing-reappearing ghost house, likely to entertain us with the story. I told them I didn’t put stock in such things and snapped a photo.

Continuing south, we conversed about the delights of night riding: the ability to traverse roadways unthinkable during waking hours traffic; the coolness of the evening; the emptiness of the trails. “This [Sunday night] is thee absolute best time to be out” Jim noted. His philosophy is refreshingly simple: “When the choice is to ride or not to ride, ride. You seldom regret it.”

Our last destination was the Nathan Manilow sculpture garden at Governors State University. We stopped to check the map, realized we missed our turn by 500’. The night air was chilly and damp, my sweat soaked bandanna refusing to dry.

“Underwhelming” was how Jim described it. The giant Paul Bunyan sculpture was slumped to show his “weariness and age,” but he just looked hunched. They were interesting and the campus looked nice anyway. Another locale crossed off th’ list.

43 miles at our half-way point, into the wilderness where the Madison & State based numbering system labels its last street (265^th in Crete?) We headed back up Governor’s Pkwy, which would become Crawford then Pulaski. We cut over to the north section of the Tinley Creek Trail System, but zigged when we should have zaged and were unceremoniously dumped on 151^st street westbound in a strange land where north-sound streets are numbered as well. We cut north on the horrid pavement of 82^nd street and did some time on Crawford in the building morning traffic. Jim was now going on 22 hours. Kedzie was only marginally better so we took California at the earliest chance—71^st street-- all the way to Fulton.

We had a rolling good-bye at 6:30am/7.25 hours/90 miles. I took a long, hot shower and sat with the dog awhile on the back porch before heading to work.

T.C.

I played in Peoria

2007-06-01T23:41:00.002-07:00

The plan was simple. Get an early start Sunday and ride, fully loaded, to Lacon, IL 20 miles north of Peoria. Greenfield was riding from Joliet (thank you Metra) camping at Starved Rock in Utica on Saturday night. With perseverance and a bit of luck I would overtake him sometime before our evening’s destination Lacon, otherwise at the town tavern.

I arose at 3:00 am and fried some potatoes with onions and garlic and eggs sunny side up.

At 4:30 all was quiet in the neighborhood, which is good because the neighborhoods were East Garfield Park and Lawndale. The narcotics industry is the single largest employer in my neighborhood, but this time of night is sort of a shift change. The night before, snaking along the side streets home from Logan Square, I encountered many young entrepreneurs. Their pitches are friendly and sound downright wholesome. “It’s good,” one called. “You can taste it.”

I took Kedzie to Ogden which I would follow (U.S. 34) for the next 50 miles. I took care to follow the motor vehicle swept pathways, avoiding the glass strewn areas of the broad boulevard. I stopped to photo this SUV. On the ground lay a baseball bat, snapped in half. I put the camera away and got back on the bike.

To keep track on the map and absorb my surroundings, I habitually speak aloud the name of each street as I cross it and the attempt to recall the name of the last. We frequently watch this video at work and singing it whenever somebody says “Washington” has become a running gag, so I did a verse every time I crossed a roadway bearing his name.

I crossed the Fox River in downtown Oswego at 7:40 am at mile 40 and was in Plano by 8:30 am—for a respectable 50 miles in 4 hours. Here I took time out for a self portrait and to gorge myself on pork tacos at Taqueria I know. When a car full of hipsters with thoughtful hair and ironic glasses passed, I knew I was getting close to the Farnsworth House.

I turned onto River Rd. and initial suspicions set in as I passed 1800’ of barbed wire fence and numerous locked security gates. Finally I came upon the “Visitor Center” situated like a checkpoint. I walked into the glorified gift shop, full of van der Rohe inspired lamps and cooking utensils.

“How may I help you?” said the cheerful attendant.

“I’d like to buy some snow tires” I replied in my head.

“Well, I’d like to see the House.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Uh oh. “Um, no… do I need one?”

“Let me see if anyone is available.” I pawed through the carefully folded, neatly stacked t-shirts, one each small, medium, large and extra large. She reappeared with a docent in tow.

“Now, the cost is $20” she smiled sweetly.

“Good Gravy!” I said, wide eyed. “Uh… I just want to take a peek. Might there be some sort of discounted look-see rate?”

“I’m afraid we only offer discounted rates for groups of 10 or more.”

I looked carefully to each side. “No, I’m definitely not a group of 10 people.”

We sat silent, blinking. “Sorry to have wasted your time” I said and walked out.

I’m sure that the tour would have been grand. I’m sure that the $20 would go to upkeep. I’m sure there is a need to keep an eye on visitors. But all I wanted and had time for was a gander and it irked me that there was no more accessible rate. I knew I should have just ridden around that stupid shack.

None the less, I should not be thwarted so easily. Immediately, I started hatching a plan. If the house sits on the river it must be visible from the other bank, right?

Right. I rolled into Sliver Springs State Park and sure enough, found a well worn park bench across from the House, which was heavily obscured by foliage. I sat down, dialed information and was patched through to the gift shop.

“Hello, this is T.C. O’Rourke. I was over there a moment ago, you remember, the fellow on the bicycle?”

“Yes, of course”

“Well, I’m across the river now. I believe I can see the House. It’s rather near the bridge, is it?”

“Yes, yes it is.”

“Well I just wanted to alert you it is viewable from here. There is some tree cover, but I’m certain you’re loosing revenue. Have you considered a privacy fence?”

I crossed the Fox for a third time in Ottawa, 8 hours and 84 miles. Route 71 was detoured, so I called Greenfield, thinking he might have the skinny. “Where you at?” “I’m in Ottawa.” It was noon and he was 10 miles short of where he should have woke up. Best laid plans, I guess. We arranged to meet at the Kroger’s super-market.

Greenfield must have had 100 lbs of gear strapped to his rig, testing for his imminent cross country trip. We decided to follow 71. We rode along discussing his new machine, my newish machine, adjustments to be made, and gear to bring.

Passing by “the Rock” without a pint at Duffy’s felt a little strange, but it’s one hell of a hill on the way back. You might remember Utica was devastated by a tornado in 2004. 8 people died seeking refuge in the basement of the Milestone, a 100 year old limestone building. I visited later that year, surveyed the aftermath and chatted with the Duffy’s proprietor about his insurance claims, the rebuilding of the town and the Milestone. Afterwards, the gent on the next stool leaned over and said, in a quiet voice, “The Milestone was my bar, man.” Duffy’s was now the only game in town.

We entered Starved Rock from the east and I powered up the steep hill like it was a speed bump, three gears up from the lowest, fully loaded, with 90 miles on my legs. All the mileage appears to be paying off, ‘cause people, I’ve never taken a hill like that in my life.

A bridge was out so we hit the grid of idyllic county roads working our way to route 26, which follows the Illinois River. Greenfield had Wiki’d Lacon, a town of 2,000 people. 99.09% white. There were three taverns, we did the Twister on a recommendation and somehow ended up with Fruit Loop flavored Leinenkugel. On the artistic front, a poster depicted an egg screwing a chicken. A semi-coherent drunkard attempted to dissuade us from the big jam band festival across the river in “Chili” with warnings of drug sniffing dogs and the National Guard.

I ended up with 145 miles for the day. We camped the night in Marshall State Fish and Wildlife Area, where our camp hosts Ken and Carmen graciously allowed us to shower in their RV. We ate cheddar fortified mac and cheese and fully cooked brats over the fire watching the antics of our coked up neighbors. They set the stage for the total chaos later in the evening, when we called the cops on a dude restraining a drunken woman and running around with a golf club screaming and banging on cars. The cops showed up, arrested someone else. Then it was group hugs for all and back to non-violent shouting until 5 am.

We had a leisurely breakfast of toaster pastries and coffee and were on the road at noon.

Peoria was about 20 miles. We stopped into a thrift where I grabbed a clean shirt for the train and Greenfield searched for something embossed with the phrase “I played in Peoria.” After rolling through the desolate holiday downtown, settled on “Old Chicago” which was founded by some dudes from Boulder, Co. The menu featured the “Chicago Seven” pizza and Greenfield and I smugly wagered that no one in the establishment knew of the dirty hippies.

We confusedly detoured into an East Peoria neighborhood and lost more time stopping at the ice cream cone shaped building, as appears in the Illinois volume of that “Moderately Weird Shit” book series. Exiting the town we finally encountered Brood XIII. ‘Bout friggin time.

I did the math and started panicking. It was now 4:30 in the PM. Train departs at 8:06 PM, from Bloomington-Normal, approximately 35 miles away, the specific location unknown. Tight, mighty tight and all the time with Greenfield in my ear about how we had enough time. He stopped to tighten his handlebars and I kicked up two gears, loosing sight of him.

The first guide sign along US 151 confirmed my fears that Bloomington was further than we had guesstimated. It was 28 miles to town, into a heady crosswind, in 2 ½ hours. I strived for a 13 mph cruising speed with minimal stops. I was drenched in sweat.

At 7 pm the phone rang. It was Greenfield calling to say we had plenty of time.

I made one last stop for Gatordrink and a 6 pack of tall boys for the train (or possibly the hotel room) and asked directions to the Amtrak station. The filling station attendant narrowed it down 50% to “Normal.”

I hit the streets of Bloomington without slowing, turning northbound to on the main drag through Normal, noting the tracks on the map, all the while on hold waiting for an Amtrak agent. Finally, I spied an Amtrak sign, the first in the series that would guide me to the station at 7:52 pm, 72 miles from camp.

I kept my neck craned for Greenfield but it was a long shot. I had busted ass to keep my pace of 13 for the last three hours. If he had done 11 mph, with all that weight, and stopped as little as I, he’d still be a full 32 minutes behind me. It was truly hopeless.

So imagine my surprise when he rolled up at 8:03 PM. “Funny, I would have thought the train station in Bloomington-Normal would have been in Bloomington.” He had even spent time cruising downtown Bloomington looking for it! He ran inside to obtain his ticket, while I scratched my head.

We weren’t out of the woods yet. When the train arrived, the assistant conductor asked if we had screw drivers to remove our wheels, as the bikes would need to be stashed in the overhead racks due to the crowded holiday train. We assured her we did. What we didn’t have were tickets for the bikes. This was because roll-on service is not offered on this line, but nobody appeared to know this but us. I gave her the old “they told me to buy it on the train” line but she demanded I go into the station to procure them. They would hold the train.

The conductor at my side we waited as the agent fumbled around trying to get the computer to sell us a bike ticket for a train that doesn’t allow bikes. After 2 minutes the annoyed conductor bellowed “FORGET IT! WE’LL SELL THEM ONE ON THE TRAIN!” Greenfield had already boarded with my ride, so I sweated his monster load up the stairs and to the back of the packed train.

We stashed the bikes, changed our sweat drenched clothing and settled in the snack car with our cans of High Life.

T.C.

See all the trip photos here and John Greenfield's New Tatto: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600297919303/

Brevet #3: Let's See How Far This Guy Makes It

2007-05-25T16:54:00.000-07:00

“…hello??”

“Dude, are you awake?”

“ummh, yeah…”

Um, yeah. It was noon, so I thought I should give Adrian a wake up call to make sure we were on track for the train and the 250 mile brevet #3 on Saturday (may 19th). It was worse than I thought. Turns out he had spent the night with a ladyfriend and hadn’t even been home yet. Needless, he would not be joining me on the 1:30pm.

Bummer. I was looking forward to the companionship and deferment of boarding costs, as well as depending on him to bring my new headlight, which I had ordered the week before from Boulevard Bikes, where he works. I’d grabbed a spoke wrench, multi-tool and a fistful of bolts while Kevin carefully marked out and measured the circumference of my wheel to put an end to my cyclometer hijinx. 2120mm, remind me later.

The next possible train was 8:30pm with the rush hour restriction and given that not all trains run to the end of the line. I advised him to get his ass on it and privately accessed a 20% chance of him doing so.

I did the train and the 17 miles to the motel getting in about 5pm, rolling up on Frank and Ron in the parking lot. “So you rode up?” Frank nodded nonchalantly. Of course I hadn’t, but only a randonneur would be unimpressed with riding 100 miles to the start of a 250 mile ride.

I checked in, touched base with Adri, laid out my clothing, packed up everything else, showered, ate a double helping of tuna casserole and went to bed with a bad Dennis Hopper movie. It was 7pm and bright sunlight leaked from under the curtains. I drifted in and out of pleasant sleep. Low and behold, Adrian came in ‘round midnight.

We were up at 5 am and somehow, I was still scrambling to get to the start on time. In my haste I left large swaths of un-screened skin above my knees, making for some uncomfortable sunburn later. I put on a beat up wool sweater in a last minute decision to bring it. They never improved upon wool. About 30 riders assembled at the start and were warned about a few changes from last year’s route. And we were off.

Mike, Adrian and I rode for a spell, until I threw my chain off the granny. I took the opportunity to take a self portrait. A few riders approached from behind. Honestly, it may have been my imagination, brimming with anxiety, rolling along in my thread bare sweater, on my touring rig. But I’m pretty sure I heard him correctly: “Let’s see how far this guy makes it.”

I caught up with the crew at check point #1 in Edgerton. Adrian grabbed a coffee, unimaginably early in the game for me, but he runs on the stuff. For the next ten miles he rode one handed. As we departed, a few riders were heading back from the direction we were headed. The new course was to New Glarus, not Sun Prairie, their error saving us some mileage.

Mile 40 found me sluggish. The tops of my knees were achy from Thursday night’s escapade. I put my concerns about finishing out of my mind and hoped my body would loosen up over sometime over the next 210 miles.

It is somewhat frustrating that both times I have found myself in New Glarus, I have been unable to visit the brewery. As we sat outside the 2^nd checkpoint, Adrian noted that we could easily split a 6 of spotted cow amongst the 5 in our crew, now including Mike’s friends Dave and Ken. Once again, unimaginable.

En route to Sauk City my back started to ache—another sign that I was weakened from Thursday. Goddamn track bike. Doubt crept into my mind. At the Sauk City checkpoint I ate a slice of pizza with a single oversized piece of pepperoni. I couldn’t handle the ambiance and wandered off to the nearest grassy spot—a green electrical box behind some dumpsters. Laying down in the hot sun, I let the crew leave without me.

My strategy had been questioned, but the 20 minutes prone did me right. I felt a little looser and passed up some riders. Riding alone, I practiced riding no handed—rather difficult with the slack geometry of my ride— but a handy skill to relieve back muscles. Mike materialized from behind after following an old arrow. Somewhere, somehow we all regrouped.

In Baraboo, I selected a freezer case burrito called “the bomb.” Only time would tell. Here we missed our opportunity to purchase clown noses, for a good cause, to sport at the finish. Dave lamented a lazy winter.

We rode through Devil’s Lake State Park. Struggling up the hills Mike revealed he had not used his granny ring all day. I, on the other hand, hadn’t used my largest ring. We were rewarded with an incredible winding descent through the park which delivered us to the ColSac III. Unfortunately the adjacent ice cream shop was closed.

Lodi, then Sun Prairie. We battled hills, drunks and irate cagers, sometimes simultaneously. Somewhere the temperature had dropped to around 40, giving us a span of 40 degrees for the day. Everything I had, I had on. The wind had started hard out of the west and had shifted nicely to the north east. A storm was raging somewhere, but it wouldn’t rage here. A few drizzles slicked the road.

Throughout the afternoon I worked on making my orienteering pattern second nature and it had become essential in the darkness: Locate the indicator arrow. Check the street sign for the name. Find the confirmation arrow. Check your cyclometer and compare your mileage to the cue sheet. Find the mileage of the next motion. Find the name of the next street. Find the direction of the next motion. Find the attributes of the intersection (stop light, T-intersection.) Locate the indicator arrow…

It’s important to run through the checklist each time in proper order. Compare the mileage first and you might miss the confirmation arrow. You might miss a quick turn while scanning the cue sheet for the direction of it. Knowing that your next motion is a right turn at the stop sign of a T-intersection affords you the relaxation of knowing you can’t miss it.

At the 200 mile mark, I was on fire, feeling better than I did all day, like I could ride forever. I knew this was on account of the tailwind and some endorphins, but it made me giddy none the less. When the mileage stacks up, some folks like to complain a bit about their various aliments and others prefer to suffer in silence. However, it is universal bad form to publish the fact you feel great under such circumstances. 200 miles is irrational mood swing territory and announcing such a thing around overtired people in pain might earn you a punch in the nose or, at the very least, ensure you are dropped at the earliest opportunity should the situation reverse itself. (Fuck him, he feels “great”.)

None the less, it was looking like we could sew this thing up in 24 hours. I voiced my opinion that we should hit the next checkpoint hard and fast and get immediately back on the road. A good plan, but alas, fatigue set in and our course set into the wind. By the time we arrived in Edgerton, we were all ready to sit a spell. I wandered the mini-mart in a half insane daze, purchasing a 1 Lb bag of potato chips and a tub of processed cheese food, plopped down in the abandoned Taco John’s and set about devouring it.

I don’t recall much from that last leg. My hands hurt. My back hurt. My neck hurt. My ass hurt. Worst was the sharp pain that shot through my middle right toe with each revolution of the crank. Each crack in the road something or other throbbed. We collected Adrian, who had sprinted ahead on his own second wind, aimlessly wandering the streets of downtown Delavan. The town was awakening with joggers and dogs and automobile traffic.

We rolled in to the Super 8 at 6:52 am, 250 miles and just shy of 25 hours. After the initial euphoria wore off, Adrian and I sat staring at each other, unblinking, awaiting our outrageously overpriced taxi. It would be many hours and vehicles before we lay our weary heads to rest.

T.C.

Additional Ride Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tcorourke/sets/72157600311162173/

General Idea of the Route:http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&saddr=Delavan,+WI&daddr=Edgerton,+Wisconsin+to%3Anew+glarus,+WI+to%3ASauk+City,+Sauk,+Wisconsin,+United+States+to%3ABaraboo,+WI+to%3AMerrimac,+Wi+to%3ALodi,+WI+to%3ASun+Prairie,+WI+to%3AEdgerton,+Wisconsin+to%3ADelavan,+WI&amp;mrcr=8&dirflg=h&sll=43.050295,-89.211345&sspn=0.935289,1.867676&amp;ie=UTF8&ll=43.092961,-89.181519&spn=0.934646,1.867676&z=9&om=1

Around the World in 40 Miles

2007-05-23T11:06:00.000-07:00

A bit behind in the ol’ blogging I know, but what can I do? Writing these things takes nearly as long as riding them.

Here’s about a ‘training’ ride from Thursday May 17. Stay tuned for a full report on the 3^rd brevet, this past Saturday… well Saturday-Sunday to be more precise...

************************************************************************

I met up with Lauren at the Buckingham Fountain, 8pm. The idea was to do a shorter ride not straying too far from public trans. I used the opportunity to bust out the fixie, a 2001 Bianchi Pisa acquired during my stint at On The Route Bicycles.

I don’t ride this machine much anymore. At 35, riding a brakeless track bike is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t proposition. Ride it and you’re clinging to your fading youth; hang it up and you’re too old to cope.

Really, it’s just that they’re poor for commuting. They’re dirty—no chain guard or fenders. Everything you carry is on your back. Pushing a higher gear breeds speed and sweat. The high tire pressure means frequent flats. The knee problems I was warned about never materialized, but I ride like Orrin Hatch (ultra-conservative.)

We hopped on the Lakefront Trail, north bound, stopping for a quick break to adjust Lauren’s new cyclometer. (Do these things ever work right?) We sipped my “girlie style” coffee (w/cream and sugar) while I chivalrously adjusted the mounting of the transmitter, slicing my thumb in the process. A mere flesh wound I assure you.

Taking the trail to its northern terminus, we exited at thee most paradoxical place to ride a bike in the city: Sheridan Rd. and Ardmore Av. This is the site of the infamous 2002 $250 sidewalk riding fine 1-year ordinance, sponsored by Alderman Mary Ann Smith to placate the residents of the Sheridan Road Condo Canyon— some of which came out to taunt bewildered cyclists being ticketed. It looks like she’s back at it.

Of course, it should be noted that her original proposal was an immediate seizure and forfeiture of the offender’s bike. A little known provision of an obscure legal document made this impossible.

Sidewalk riding is a serious problem here and desperately needs to be corrected. Unfortunately for everyone, the real reasons for the uncivil behavior – mainly the rational fear of being crushed to death negotiating Sheridan Rd.—were never addressed. Instead, the wrong-way bike lane on Ardmore was merely re-striped and a lame pavement marking scheme painted over the “street end,” preserving motor-vehicle access for Chinese food delivery drivers and the like. It is still entirely possible for the citizen motorist to drive up and onto the trail and, idiotically enough, for cyclists to ride up onto the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, law-abiding cyclists thought the Sheridan corridor are directed to ride a complex jumble of streets to the west—regardless of their actual destination.

I should know, I ordered and supervised the installation of maybe 100 different signs in the area, all the time dealing with the honks, swerving and death-threats while riding on Sheridan siting them. (I couldn’t damn well ride on the sidewalk now, could I?)

Yeah them problem is serious, but apparently not serious enough to remove a few on-street parking spaces on Ardmore or even ticket the vehicles parked in the bike lanes.

We continued up the “bike route,” which of course was missing key signs, and tried to find an example of the Caribbean & African culture in Rogers Park, taking a spin down Rogers Av. Touhy Av. on over to California Av., then a stop for Indian pastries on Devon Av., which would be the perfect dense combination of fat and sugar for brevet #3 on Saturday.

Lauren’s team came in 3rd in the 2007 University of Chicago Scavenger Hunt. Here she is proudly showing off her team wife beater. Congratulations F.I.S.T.

Back on California we made a brief stop at the Paseo Boricua and at my house in East Garfield Park to pet my Dog. Then Fulton St. to the Loop, back on the LFT and south to Hyde Park to drop Lauren off. The Green Line had ceased running, so I rode. Bronzeville, Pilsen, Taylor St.

This is what I love most about Chicago. You can travel around the world in 40 miles.

T.C.

Places from the Internet, Places from the Map

2007-05-16T21:59:00.000-07:00

Adhering to a rigorous training ride schedule involves sacrifice, dedication and a high level of level of discipline. On Saturday, I arose promptly at 9:30. PM. After sleeping 12 solid hours.

Ok. It sounds bad, but sleeping all day Saturday was rather productive in the grand scheme of things. To squeeze in 12 hours of riding before Mothers Day festivities, I was going to have to get creative with my circadian rhythm. I had stayed up about 24 hours straight, spending Friday night puttering about, cleaning my apartment and cooking numerous tuna casseroles. I was now well rested, primed for another 24 hour day.

I caught the 12:40 PM Metra MD West Line destined for downtown Elgin. Although this is rather early for us city dwellers, this is the last train out for the suburban party crowd and I witnessed the motion of the train knock more than one drunken idiot flat on her thong’d ass. (Mental note: pick up drunk chicks here later.)

Detraining carefully past the puke puddle—she even managed to coat the full length of the handrail— I reset my cyclometer, which I’m sure picked up the 63 mph max from someone or something other than me, and rode off at 2:00 AM.

Doing these distances is giving me the opportunity to travel foreign roadways and hit some places out of the normal striking range, places I’ve meant to visit for years. On this ride I wanted to roll through DeKalb, and then checkout Shabbona Lake State Park which I had pondered on the map. But mainly, this ride was a pilgrimage. My first destination would be Huntley, and the ruins of Shireland.

60 miles northwest of Chicago, Shireland was an amusement/ theme park based around Shire horses. Opened in the late 80’s by the man who invented upside-down spray paint, it was a near immediate failure. The large draft animals were unused to crowds and freaked out on opening day, which was fine as the general public had limited interest in medieval horses-of-war anyway. Shireland now sits as a testament to the sheer blindness a man’s passion can cause.

I had read about it all years ago and seen it once, to the north of Interstate 90 on a trip to Rockford. Lacking a street address or aerial photos, I decided to search for it Ponce de Leon style—wandering the area blindly based on exaggerated rumor. I carefully followed the route I had laid out while sipping coffee on the train, crisscrossing the Interstate.

Hugging the Interstate in this fashion exposed me to some god-awful exurbia. Perfect blacktop roads to nowhere. McMansions built by farmers-cum-speculators, next to their collapsing barns. An outlet mall. A skunk ambled across his former home in this new sprawling subdivision —maybe 50 ‘homes’— being built simultaneously. The rate and scope of development is truly frightening.

After a few hours of searching, stopping to check the map and retracing steps after dead ends, I was beginning to think I had missed it, but at the end of a long stretch of hilly highway the local highschoolers call roller coaster road, stood the doomed fairgrounds in all their dilapidated glory. I put myself in the right frame of mind and hopped the fence.

The place has not aged well since the photos I saw were taken (2002.) Most of it is gone, the rest overgrown with weeds. A little graffiti, a little broken glass. Pretty ok.

I was startled by the dawn. It was nearly 5am and in the first 3 hours of my excursion, I’d only gone 20 miles. I jumped on the bike and rode 12 miles or so northwest to Marengo and them headed immediately south, into the wind, which had shifting from the east.

At 8:30am I stopped in DeKalb, to eat half my veggie burger and baked potatoes with cheese and broccoli and drink some coffee. A light rain steadily increased and I was damp and a bit cold. In addition to the food and thermos of coffee, I was carrying several maps, a lock and a full change of street clothing (including low top chucks.)

I checked out “Peace Road Trail” a paved number running along the power line right-of-way but quickly abandoned it for the road. I am always extra cautious when riding any roadway who's name would lend irony to my being killed on it. If I ever encounter "Happy Bicyclist Rd." I'm walking. But traffic was still light and the rain let up.

About an hour later the engine was sputtering, courtesy of my low fat meal. I hadn’t noticed a single open convenience store on the route, but fortunately for me the filling station in Shabbona had an extended variety of the “touring cyclists 4 food groups”: fatty, starchy, salty, and sugary.

Un-fortunately for me, Shabbona was about 30 miles from Aurora, which itself was 17 miles from Grandma’s house in Downers Grove. Why I had assumed it to be closer I do not know. It was after 11am and although it was heartbreaking to have come to the door step of Shabbona Lake State Park only to leave without a spin around the grounds, I knew I was already destined to be late. I settled for wolfing down my turbo caloric food in Chief Shabbona Forest Preserve and hit the Lincoln Highway.

I have always depended on big, mean ass highways when I need to burn up the miles. They’re always labeled, whatever the map and well signed, so there’s little chance of getting lost. They’re more direct and flatter. If the town has what you need, it’ll likely be on the main road. And manipulating 60 mph traffic with your body and bike provides that little extra adrenaline to keep you at an honest speed.

While not exactly pleasant, Sunday + Holiday = Mellow and I had zero problems with irate cagers, even as traffic increased. The cross wind let up a bit too and I consistently moved the needle towards the 10mph overall average each hour, achieving it by the time I landed at Grandmas—about an hour late.

Total for the trip: 137 miles in less than 14 hours, including the ride to and from the train. Not bad, considering my initial dawdling, my load, the wind and rain.

Special thanks to Lawyer Jim for stopping by Sunday morn to release the hound.

T.C.

Brevet Number Two, 186 Miles or Half of Halfway

2007-05-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

Cinco de Mayo was the 2^nd of 4 qualifying brevets, the 300km—186 miles—to be completed in 20 hours.

Thursday night I carefully went over my bike. I removed the front rack and a few Phillips heads to standardize my bolts. I carefully checked each to see that each bolt and nut would be reachable with the reduced number of tools I would carry. I had also scored a water bottle short enough to clear the fender for my third cage. The silkscreened corporocoffeelogo came off nicely with a bit of whittling.

Friday evening Julie, Ben, their friend Snacks and I drove up in a borrowed car and split the room. Val and Brean stopped by for a visit, then we all turned in early and I fell into a light sleep to the craziness of the cartoon network.

I set my cell phone alarm for 5am, or so I thought, but was awoken by our 6am wakeup call. No matter, nothing would prevent me from the eggs, potatoes, bacon and pancakes I pledged to devour before the ride. The instantaneous oatmeal packets of the continental breakfast just wouldn't cut it. After an underwhelming breakfast at Perkins (which opened at 6am anyway,) I returned to motel to get dressed, packed, registered and slathered with various ointments.

Yes, by the time I pushed off, the ride had departed without me. I tried not to push myself to catch riders, but given my orienteering skills it is of paramount importance to keep riders in view. I soon caught up with the rear, putting my mind at ease.

At the 1^st checkpoint I guzzled some gator-juice and scarfed down a hamster pellet—despite not being at all hungry. Unlike last ride, this time I would eat every time the thought crossed my mind and would drink as much fluids as I could stand.

I left town feeling strong and quickly got off course. Confusing matters was the fact that, despite missing my turn, I was on the correct road—just going the wrong way— and crossing streets I remembered, since I was riding parallel to the correct route. I noted the mileage when I turned around and again when I found my missed turn. 3.5, or a total of 7 extra miles. Immediately following this blunder with another unwarranted double back, I was soon 10 miles over for the day, again the last rider. I was further dismayed by the kindly checkpoint staffer on ‘sweep up patrol’, assuring me that there would be plenty of food and water at the next checkpoint.

On the bright side, the wind was hard out of the east and I times I was doing 24mph without much effort. I just tried to enjoy it, telling myself that it would likely die down by the time I turned around. Meanwhile, I passed pastures where every last cow was laying down.

I rolled into the 2^nd checkpoint, relieved to catch up with a handful of surprised riders, including Snacks & Julie. “Everything’s gonna be OOOOOKKKKAYYY,” I lied. Food. Gator-juice. Stretched my neglected legs. We left together rolling through scenic downtown Sun Prairie.

Not having seen the start of the ride, I didn’t know that the racing set had all but disappeared. 186 miles is well beyond the point of diminishing returns for training for anything but endurance cycling. About 5 miles to the halfway point at Lodi, WI, the first riders started trickling past, without the aerodynamic advantage of the pace line.

In Lodi we sat a spell and enjoyed the lukewarm food selection offered by the Kwiki Mart, discussing the hills we would need climb, against the wind, to get out of town. When we hit them, I enjoyed an advantage of being on a touring rig—my 30x32, which is lower than 1:1 ratio and like pulling yourself uphill with a block & tackle.

Re-gathering after the hills we created a pace line, but could still only muster 11mph into the harsh east wind. For awhile we caught up with Mike, who was trying to get the Bulls game on his walkman. A storm brewed on the horizon. Pretty country, anyway.

We were in dire need of a break when we rolled back into Sun Prairie and more than one of us contemplated heading into “Toot’s Tap” rather than the checkpoint. We sat on the curb at the filling station discussing the ridiculous nature of randonneuring and comparing knee surgeries. When I arose to leave, my left calf felt like a fist.

The wind was slowly dying and—as Snacks said—so were we. I dropped an energy bar and moved with all the grace of a gnome when trotting back to pick it up. The crosswind on this stretch was nearly worse than the headwinds. It dried my eyes and felt like a bloody nose. No matter how close I tucked in to anyone, there was no relief.

“Steak Burrito War” having broken out Taco John’s, I attempted to stay neutral by ordering some tater tots, which proved a tactical mistake of excess. During the course of the day I ate a large greasy breakfast, 5 energy bars, a can of Pringles, a bag of nuts, two bananas, a bag of orange slices candy, a bottle of V8, a bag of cheese curds, a heat-lamp hamburger and a peanut butter rice crispy treat smothered in chocolate frosting, all of which my system tolerated. But these little suckers sat in my stomach like buckshot for the remaining 30 miles.

Studying my brevet card, I was pleased to discover that I had done, unofficially anyway, 105 miles in >7 hours, 134 in >10 hours and 168 in >13.5. Even without my 10 additional idiot miles, 95/124/158, these were all records for me.

When we departed the last checkpoint, night had fallen. I hadn’t given much consideration to riding in darkness. My front lights were in the traditional position: up for motorist eyes instead of down for the pavement and markings. They were also mounted low on my fork, out of reach, so I was unable to use them to read either cyclometer or cue sheet. I relied on the bright lights of Julie and Dave to find the arrows and read the street signs, watching the shadow of my legs pounding like pistons when I rode ahead, although I spent as much time as I could hanging of Dave’s rear wheel.

Eventually, I was alone, cruising the residential streets of Delavan, thinking about the cold beer awaiting me. I rolled into the Super-8 sometime around 11:45, three plus hours before the cutoff. I totaled 196 miles in less than 17 hours.

I found Mike, who was laughing. He demanded my camera.

T.C.

P.S. More photos of brevets #1 & #2 at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/7854382@N04/sets/

Through the Ghetto and Over the Suburbs to Grandmother’s House I Go...

2007-05-02T13:01:00.000-07:00

Given my performance on the last brevet, I thought I best spend some time in the saddle on Sunday. About 8:30 AM I left the house and made my way to North Avenue.

Besides the old-world stretch between Ashland and Western Aves., North is a dismal street to bike, 4 or more lanes, mostly curbs vs. shoulders and FAST traffic. However, it met several criteria:

1) It is a straight shot to my first destination and a good way to across the suburbs before Sunday joy(less)riding began.

2) The route features no turns to miss or ponder.

3) The fast traffic would put a fire under me to keep up the speed.

The fist stretch was rather uneventful. Some thugs in a late model sedan passed a little to close. M plates. As I progressed, bemused and bewildered suburbanites, clutching highly branded food and beverage items peered at me from their supersized SUVs.

It was about 10 AM and 25 miles west before traffic became obnoxious to the point where I took the lane. Given some of the reaction I got, don’t think many bicyclists in St. Charles do this. But safety first, or as I always say: “Fuck Off, Asshole.”

I hit the Fox River and its namesake trail at mile 33. It must have been the annual elderly folks, unsupervised-darting-children and inattentive-persons-who-walk-five-
abreast walk for the cure, because the trail was overrun. I got back on the road, southbound.

I was sipping coffee from my thermos near the windmill in Batavia when Taryn called. She was looking to go for a bike ride, but none of her other friends we awake yet. Capitol idea, Taryn, but perhaps another time.

I rode on to Aurora, immediately turning around at Noon, as not to be late to Grandma’s house. I rode about a whole quarter-mile on the Aurora branch of the Illinois Prairie Path before I got frustrated with the surface and the intersections. I bailed and cut across a bunch of McMansion subdivisions, until I came across Liberty rd. the recommended route on my trusty CBF map.

Ordinarily, I would suffer the trails—the bad pavement, the crummy intersections, the winding indirectness, the idiotic bollards— for the single benefit of not constantly looking over my shoulder for cars. But the starts and stops and blind corners are no good for a ‘training’ mission such as mine.

Liberty becomes Jefferson and passes through downtown Naperville, which is quick to tell you it’s as old as Chicago. If you want to see some rich-ass white folks, go to downtown Naperville.

I cruised the main drag in Downers Grove, 68 miles into the ride. Both the florist and chocolateer were closed, so I arrived at grandma’s empty handed. We ate turkey and swiss on rye and Waldorf salad, a serving of which, I realize as I type this, is sitting in my pannier now. Sorry Grandma.

After a pleasant afternoon shooting the breeze, I began the journey home. The wind had been in my face until I left Aurora, from the South to Southwest, but was now hard out of the west. I made my way over 294 to the 7 mile Salt Creek trail, a joyful jaunt, but the southern terminus of which dumps you out onto 31^st St. at the Brookfield Zoo.

I stair-stepped my way back into the city 26^th, Central, Roosevelt, Kedzie. I wasn’t too keen on ridding through the West Side dressed spandex, a reflective vest and other safety gear and on bike lit like a tree. Things were hopping, but I had minimal troubles.

When I arrived home I hadn’t yet tripped 100 miles, so I decided to make a celebratory beer run to Wicker Park, which put me at 102.5 in 7 hours of riding. I felt strong and ready for 50 more, which is good because the next brevet is 90 more.

(Great Lakes Brewing Co's Burning River Pale Ale, was the beer but I fell asleep before I could enjoy one.)

T.C.

200 km aka "The Easy One" Part 2

2007-04-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

On a long bike ride, there’s nothing quite like doing a 180 and heading back exact same way you came. It becomes immediately apparent the effect the wind has had on your progress thus far and whether you are less or more than halfway, not in terms of mileage, but effort-wise.

As it turns out, I was only a quarter into the ride at the half way point. Later, I would learn that the wind strengthened as the day progressed, topping out head on from the S/SE at 14mph with 22 mph gusts. At the time, I knew only that I was reduced to 8mph on level ground and was sputtering profanities up—and down— the hills.

After 20 minutes it was also apparent that I had not rested long enough at the 2^nd checkpoint. I pulled over and climbed up the embankment to lie down for awhile, hoping that I might look confident for napping. “Is everything ok?” the first riders passing called out. It would not be the last time this inquiry was made. Without looking, I gave them a thumbs-up, mainly to dissuade them from calling an ambulance.

I lay quietly in the sun for awhile, occasionally looking up to pity the dwindling riders still heading to the 2nd checkpoint, some with worried looks. “Poor fools” I thought, “wait ‘til they hit this wind.” Both my sympathy and sense of superiority would evaporate later, when they overtook me on the return.

Back on the road the going was slow. With so much time on my hands I had many revelations. The first was that all my long distance achievements —details of which I shall bore you with in later posts— have been with little or no wind or with the wind at my back, either by luck or design.

Another revelation was that for all the touring I’ve done, I still need to polish up some basic riding skills. I shift miserably, grinding, overshooting and expecting gears that aren’t there. I cannot shoot snot without getting it all over myself. I get dizzy holding my breath when suckling the water bottle. The road crossed the Glacial Drumlin Trail and I thought of lazy days when such details were inconsequential.

I was grinding along when Mike caught up. The first words out of his mouth were about the wind. This acknowledgment and his lack of sleep made me hopeful I would have some companionship for a spell, but I excused myself for another stop after a only few miles. Not eating enough, I was lightheaded and beginning to bonk.

Poor nutrition manifested again at about mile 90, when I started getting cramps. I had forgotten to buy peanuts at the filling station and now had no salty snacks to speak of. Periodically, I’d jump off the bike and stretch the knots out of my legs. For the remainder of the ride they would cramp up with any real exertion.

Further complicating things was my dwindling water supply. I had expected my two full bottles to carry me the 35 miles between checkpoints, but with the wind I was doing the last 10 miles with a quarter bottle reserved for washing down the last of my dried pineapple.

I cannot recall ever being happy to see a “Taco John”, but the one attached to the 3^rd checkpoint thrilled me enough that I ate the overpriced, crappy fare with little complaint. Although it seemed a waste of my temporary freedom from a strict diet, the deadly high sodium content was just what the doctor ordered.

I chatted with the other wind burned stragglers and met Tom (?) who kindly offered me a fist full of “electrolyte pills” and an assurance that all the cool kids were doing them.

In addition to the eating style and the drugs taken, the orienteering was also different than what I am accustomed to. Instead of a map and cardinal directions, riders are given cue sheets with the mile #, roadway names, turns, and distance in-between. This means you spend a lot of time checking at the odometer to make sure you haven’t missed a turn, which sort of makes the miles drag on.

Since I had my cyclometer set wrong, I had to re-calibrate a few times. I’d wait for it to show the mileage of the next turn and then hold it away from the wireless transmitter until I got there. Usually I’d clench it in my teeth, so I wouldn’t forget to put it back.

The route was excellently marked, but it takes more than large spray painted arrows keep me on course. Regardless, I was proud to only add one extra mile by missing a turn. The second extra mile came from panicked backtracking when I didn’t recognize the landscape. Both mistakes came on the last leg, with few riders ahead or behind to guide or confirm. A 1.6% mileage-in-error rate—a new personal best!

For the sake of brevity, I’ll skip the part about the dogs and just say that I rolled up on the Motel at 8 pm sharp, a full 4 hours behind the first riders. True to their slogan, they did leave the porch light on for me, but it was the organizers who had growlers of cold draught from J.T. Whitney’s Pub & Brewery.

95% of the riders were long gone and with them my chances of scoring a ride to train or home. So, I booked myself a room and procured and individual sized pizza pie from an adjacent eatery on the corporate strip. I wouldn’t have to fight the wind again until the morning.

T.C.

200 km aka "The Easy One" Part 1

2007-04-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

Saturday 4/21 was the first of four qualifying brevets held by the Great Lakes Randonneurs in Wisconsin. The route would be Delavan to Sun Prairie and back, 128 miles to be completed in 13.5 hours.

Friday night I took Metra’s UPNW Line to its terminus Harvard, IL. 8:30 PM was the first available train after the outbound rush hour, when bicycles are prohibited, which got me in town at 10:20 PM. Lucky for me, none of the brevets are scheduled on one of the 22 “blackout” days on which bikes are still prohibited.

From here it was 18 miles to Delavan, WI and the five star accommodations of the Motel Super 8. The ride along U.S. 14 was pleasant, lightly trafficked with the wind at a dead calm and a waxing crescent low in the sky.

En route, Julie called to say she’d be later than expected. Sam Van Dellen had put me in touch with this kindhearted woman, who hooked me up with some floor space. Good thing too, cause my plan theretofore had been to stand around asking the other riders to crash in their room—riders who were all sound asleep when I pulled in at Midnight.

Like a good boy, I limited myself to 1 beer at Kimberly’s in glamorous downtown Delavan and met up with Julie, Ben and Ben shortly before lights out.

After a restless night, I awoke early, joined the crowd abusing the continental breakfast and registered where I was issued my checkpoint card, route sheet and a handful of hamster pellets (protein laden energy bars.)

We assembled on the tarmac minutes before 8 AM for a motivational speech and liability reminder and I began to feel a bit out of place. Organized, group rides aren’t really my typical thing. Some cats had wheel sets that cost more than my whole bike. My “good” bike. I was wearing a mountain bike style jersey and cargo pants. I had a camera around my neck. Nobody else had a front rack. I’m pretty sure nobody else was carrying a lock. (NOTE: I expected to lunch at a diner! Are YOU going to replace my stolen bike !?)

Anyway, off we rolled. I chatted awhile with Jim Krepps from the CCC, who was riding through tendinitis in his ankle. Jim’s done ‘em all-- PBP, Boston-Montreal-Boston, Cascade, Gold Rush. He’s going to PBP this year, but then taking some time off from endurance cycling. Kinda wimpy, no?

I was quite enjoying myself, riding along at 16-18mph in the considerable wind break of the group. I knew they would drop me eventually, but my thought was “If I can keep up for just 20 miles, it will be worth the effort.” Soon more grandiose strategies unfolded in my mind. “I should definitely keep near the bike at the first checkpoint (mile 35,) so that I can leave with them in a hurry.”

At mile 8, I was dropped.

For awhile I paired up with Frank, an Industrial Psychologist from the Twin Cities. He claimed to be nearly 60, but didn’t look a day over 45. He had been to PBP in 2003 and informed me that the roads were much nicer than stateside. Then he dropped me.

The first (and third) checkpoint was a filling station in Edgerton. Ordinarily, I might rant a bit about big oil and the irony of its involvement here, but I have learned, both from touring and living on the west side of Chicago, that sometimes patronizing a gas station unavoidable. I snapped a shot of Julie.

Back on the road, I found myself in a small group with Jeff, who owns a bike shop in South Bend, IN. He reassured me that the Long Haul Trucker was a fine steed for the job at hand. We chatted until I dropped my water bottle—which upon my retrieving it had a nice wheel shaped dent. All apologies to the nice lady behind me…

I missed yet another good photo op at mile 60 as the leaders approached on their return. Another PBP veteran, Scott McIntire, who I know from his days bartending at Cal’s, was close to the front. I was pleased to see they were only about 10 miles ahead at the halfway point, although the wind that had built up behind me did have me concerned about the reverse ride.

At around 12:30 I pulled into the second checkpoint in Sun Prairie, mile 65. About this time I was realizing that nobody else was going to stop for a 3 egg omelet, hash browns and bacon, so I decided I would go with the flow and eat gatherer vs. hunter style. I slammed a Starfucks “frappasomething” from the cooler case and ate another pellet.

I was saddling up when Mike Feirstein arrived. He and Scott were the ones who fist told me about PBP 4 years ago. The proprietor of Cal’s and grandson of its founder, Mike had a late night with a show at the tavern. Operating on no sleep he looked a little weary and had started 20 minutes late.

I told him he would catch up to me and headed into the wind…

T.C.

The Burger and the Damage Done

2007-04-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

Thomas Christopher O’Rourke

Male, aged 34

Born November 21, 1972 in Oak Park, Illinois

As of: April 18, 2007

Weight: 193.5 Lbs

Body Fat: 22.6%

B.M.I.: 27.4

So my percentage body fat falls into the “acceptable” range, which used to just be called “overweight.” I doubt this name sugarcoating did anyone any good.

Since I am so very out of shape, I set no specific “numeric” goal, but rather desire to get fit as possible in the little time I have.

At the end of our grand experiment I shall publish the “after” photos, hopefully in dramatic contrast. Perhaps I can even sell them to snake oil marketers or do commercial spots for fast food vendors. Alas, I don’t think I’m heavy enough to qualify for my own talk show.

But for now I remain just another random weirdo clogging the web with pictures of himself in his underpants.

T.C.

“What the hell IS randonneuring, anyway?...”

2007-04-16T22:00:00.000-07:00

... I blurted, as we labored along Giant City Rd. The word was painted along the top tube of a friend’s loaded down bicycle and I realized that I had no clear definition of the term. I cannot recall Josh’s answer.

That was 9 days ago. In the interim, I have decided to ride the granddaddy of all randonnées, the Paris-Brest-Paris. It is the oldest bicycle event in the world.

For those disinterested in links, ‘randonnée’ is a French term which loosely translates to “ramble” or “long journey.” A randonnée not a race, but it must be completed in within the allotted time. There is no motor-vehicle support, participants ride day and night, whatever the weather and are expected to be self sufficient-- lights, tools, outerwear, etc.

PBP is 1200km in 90 hours. I’ll spare you the math: 750 miles to be completed in 3.75 days. It is listed first on Google under ‘sleepless grueling long distance bicycle ride.’

As if simply preparing for the event in August weren’t daunting enough, the first of 4 qualifying brevets --200km/13.5hr-- is this Saturday (April 21st), with another every two weeks thereafter, each increasing in distance, concluding with the 600km/40hr ride 8 weeks from today. To top it all off, they all start in Delavan, WI, near Lake Geneva.

Some fun facts about me:

· The longest distance at a stretch I have ridden this year: 60 miles. In the last 4 years: 140 miles.

· I will be using a regular ol’ touring rig—not quite the ideal machine for the task at hand.

· I am currently around 25 lbs over my fightin' weight.

So stick around, this should be interesting.

T.C.