Blog Housekeeping (to avoid actual housekeeping)

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 America 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.