A Brief Introduction to Bicycling in Chicago

By John Greenfield
Photos by Don Sorsa, T.C. O'Rourke and John Greenfield

[This piece also ran in Momentum Magazine, http://momentumplanet.com/.]


Chicago is a chessboard, its vast, flat grid a playing field for pedalers who plot their moves across the plane.

Though situated beside ocean-like Lake Michigan, the town’s “Windy City” nickname refers to blustery politicians, not weather. Still, winters in this municipality of nearly 3 million (9.7 million metro) are often long and brutal. Despite this, or perhaps because of the camaraderie bred by the cold, a vibrant bike culture has emerged.

The metropolis of the Midwest has a long been a cycling Mecca. By the late 1800s it boasted 54 wheelman’s clubs with over 10,000 members. In 1897 Carter H. Harrison II rode the bicycle craze to the mayor’s office with the slogan “Not the Champion Cyclist; But the Cyclist’s Champion.”

By the next year about 2/3 of U.S. bikes were manufactured within a 150-mile radius of Chicago, making it the “bicycle-building capital of America.” Schwinn, founded here in 1895 by a German immigrant, dominated the domestic market for most of the 20th Century.

Mayor Richard J. Daley, father of the current mayor, brought Chicago cycling into the modern era, designating 34 miles of routes and expanding the Lakefront Trail, which now stretches 18.5 miles along the waterfront. In 1972, the 70-year-old mayor inaugurated the city’s first bike lane on Clark Street, riding a tandem with Schwinn’s Keith Kingbay.


Advocates started the Chicagoland Bicycle Federation (www.biketraffic.org) in 1985 and soon found a powerful ally in Richard M. Daley, the current “mayor-for-life.” In 1992 his Mayor’s Bike Advisory Council released the Bike 2000 Plan, a small document that has had a big impact.

The City’s new Bicycle Program, staffed largely by consultants from the bike federation and bankrolled by federal Congestion Mitigation and Air Quality grants, pursued the goals mandated by the bike plan. Over the next 15 years they striped more than 100 miles of bike lanes, signed hundreds of miles of routes and installed over 10,000 parking racks, more than any other U.S. city [the author managed the parking program].

The bike program published the excellent Chicago Bicycle Map and Safe Cycling in Chicago booklet, distributed free at bike shops. Outreach specialists from Safe Routes to School, After School Matters and Mayor Daley’s Bicycling Ambassadors educated multitudes about how to get around on two wheels.

Bicycles gained access to Chicago Transit Authority elevated cars and Metra commuter trains, and carrying racks were added to all buses. In 2004 a $3 million cycle center, with indoor parking for 300 bikes, showers, lockers, repair services and more, was built as part of Daley’s new downtown showpiece, Millennium Park.

The Bike 2015 Plan, released in 2006, is a weightier tome than it’s predecessor with 150 strategies to improve cycling. Recently implemented ideas include the installation of 21 miles of “shared-lane markings” on streets too narrow for bike lanes; adding short stretches of solid-green lanes at problem intersections; and a program to train taxi drivers on sharing the road.

In March, as recommended by the new plan, City Council approved Mayor Daley’s proposal to fine drivers $150 for fouls against bicyclists; $500 if the driver’s action results in a crash. The new ordinance covers five dangerous moves: opening a door on a cyclist; parking or driving in a bike lane; passing within three feet of a bike; and turning left or right into the path of a cyclist, AKA the “left hook” and “right hook.”

On a trip to Paris, Daley was impressed by the Velib automated bike rental service, credited with doubling ridership overnight. Chicago is currently negotiating with JCDecaux to bring the system to the city’s central business district, the Loop. Although the contract would provide 1,000 bikes rather than Paris’ 20,000, the rental service would be among the first in North America.

Daley is also considering Sunday Parkways, a Latin American-style ciclovía in which a network of streets would be closed to driving and opened to bicycling and other forms of non-motorized play. The bike federation has raised much of the $400,000 needed to run three to five trials on a 7.5-mile route along the city’s historic boulevard system, mostly through low-income areas. Churches and neighborhood groups have embraced the proposal as a way to promote fitness in their communities. Pending final approval from the Mayor’s Office it’s likely to kick off this summer.

Recently, the City agreed to convert the Bloomingdale Line, a 3-mile long abandoned elevated railway on the Northwest Side, into an above-ground “linear park.” The project, championed by Friends of the Bloomingdale Trail (www.bloomingdaletrail.org) requires rebuilding several viaducts and will take years to complete, but the rugged rail bed is already a favorite with “urban assault” riders.

Aside from the bike federation and the bike program, a number of grassroots organizations push pedaling in Chicago. Bike Winter (http://www.bikewinter.org/) promotes all-season cycling with how-to workshops; a Winter Bike to Work Day breakfast; a bicycle-themed art show; spontaneous Snow Rides and more.


Other groups focus on particular demographics. Cycling Sisters (http://www.cyclingsisters.org/) strives to narrow the gender gap among local cyclists with women-only repair classes, recreational rides and get-togethers.

The Major Taylor Bike Society (www.chicagomajortaylor.org), named for the Black racing legend, raises awareness of bike issues and events in Chicago’s South Side and African-American communities.

Chicago Cruisers is a family-oriented club from Humboldt Park, the city’s Puerto Rican neighborhood. Dozens of members on classic Schwinns and low-rider bikes ride in procession each Sunday to a soundtrack of merengue and salsa.

Community bicycle centers are spread across the city. West Town Bikes (http://www.westtownbikes.org/) in Humboldt Park runs earn-a-bike programs and safe cycling classes for at-risk youth. Adults can attend Tinker Town Tuesday open shop nights and mechanics classes like Build Your Own Bike.

Blackstone Bicycle Works (www.experimentalstation.org/blackstone), located in the South Side’s Woodlawn community, operates from a multi-use space that houses several environmental and artistic endeavors. The shop runs maintenance classes for neighborhood kids and offers used bikes, accessories and repairs at a discount to low-income residents.

Volunteers from Working Bikes Cooperative (http://www.workingbikes.org/) salvage old cycles from basements and scrap yards and refurbish them in a jam-packed West Side warehouse. They sell the road bikes and cruisers at a nearby storefront; proceeds are used to ship containers of mountain bikes, spare parts and other items to sister organizations in Africa and Latin America.

Chicagoans are also served by a variety of for-profit shops; the Chicago Bike Shop Database (http://www.chicagobikeshops.info/) is a detailed directory. Commuters should check out Uptown Bikes; Boulevard Bikes (http://www.boulevardbikeshop.com/) in Logan Square; and Wicker Park’s Rapid Transit (http://www.rapidtransitcycles/), which specializes in city bikes, folders, recumbents and trailers.

Track enthusiasts will want to visit Yojimbo’s Garage (yojimbosgarage.com), located in a former church near the Cabrini Green housing project. Proprietor Marcus Moore is the go-to mechanic for messengers and the fashionable fixed-gear set. Yojimbo’s is also home to XXX Racing (http://www.racing.org/), a team founded by couriers that now has over 100 members from all walks of life.

Hyde Park’s Tati Cycles (http://www.taticycles.com/) is another unique shop that will appeal to fixie fans. Crammed into a tiny basement, the store has an old-fashioned aesthetic favoring lugged steel frames, lacquered bar tape, leather saddles and wool clothing. Owner Jay Han serves tea daily at 3 pm and loves to chat about cycling history.

Currently, Bike Chicago (http://www.bikechicago.com/) is the most convenient outlet for rentals, available year-round at Millennium Park’s unfortunately-named McDonald’s Cycle Center and at several lakefront locations during summer months.

Visitors who want to meet some of Chicago’s 300-plus bike couriers can go to the cylindrical Jim Thompson Center, nicknamed the “Tom Tom,” 100 W. Randolph St., where messengers standby. After work they can be found at Cal’s Liquors (http://www.drinkatcalsbar.com/), a South Loop dive that stages punk shows.

Wicker Park’s Handlebar (http://www.handlebarchicago.com/) hosts Messengers Mondays with drink specials and free fries for couriers. Riders from the Critical Mass bike parade opened this mostly-vegetarian bar and grill with bike racks in the beer garden and barstools made of old rims and inner tubes.

Until recently messenger-style “alleycat” races were common, but following the death of a rider during the Tour da Chicago series in March there seems to be a moratorium. Members of the Chicago Couriers Union are bringing this year’s North American Cycle Courier Championships (www.chicagonaccc.com) to town as a sanctioned, closed-course event in Garfield Park on Labor Day Weekend.


Out-of-towners will definitely want to take a spin on the Lakefront Trail for breathtaking views of the lake and skyline. In summer the path gets congested and hectic on the North Side, so it’s best to pedal south from the Loop for a serene or speedy ride.

Almost as scenic is the North Branch Trail which traces the Chicago River for 18 miles from the Northwest Side through suburban forest preserves, ending at the Chicago Botanic Garden. After completing the round trip it’s de rigueur to dine across the street from the trailhead at Superdawg, a 1948 drive-in topped by winking fiberglass wieners.

As for large group rides, Chicago’s huge, friendly Critical Mass (http://www.criticalmass.org/) is a must. The parade assembles on the last Friday of every month under the giant Picasso sculpture in (of course) Daley Plaza, drawing up to 4,000 participants in the summer.

There was a minor debacle last fall in conjunction with the 10th anniversary of the Daley Plaza rides. A few long-time massers decided that Critical Mass had gotten too big for its britches and issued a press release deadpanning that the September ride would be the “Grand Finale.” The Chicago Sun Times reported this as fact.

Needless to say, the ride is still going strong but a byproduct of the Grand Finale fiasco was the rise of small, community bike parades. Most of these “mini masses” take place on the first Friday of the month, in Wicker Park, Pilsen, Hyde Park and the suburbs of Evanston and Oak Park.

Apparently the bike federation was inspired by Critical Mass’ frequent forays onto Lake Shore Drive, the 8-lane expressway which separates the city from its beaches, as well as the visionary “Depave LSD” campaign (http://www.foreverfreeandclear.org/). A few years ago the federation launched Bike the Drive (http://www.bikethedrive.org/) an annual event where 15 miles of the superhighway are closed to motor traffic, drawing 20,000-plus cyclists. The result - fresh air, tranquility and a lakefront filled with people rather than steel boxes - offers a preview of what Chicago could be like in the future with less cars and more bikes.


ALEX WILSON

Alex Wilson, an early booster of Chicago Critical Mass, edited the CM zine The Derailleur and made thousands of t-shirts, flags, stickers and other schwag items to distribute free at the ride. He now runs West Town Bikes.


Why is Chicago a great city for biking?

Chicago is poised to become the most bike-friendly, major North America city in terms of utilitarian transportation. It’s easy to ride here because the city’s flat and it’s on a grid. There’s a pretty supportive city government and a very supportive bike community. My own opportunities to improve biking make Chicago a great city for me.

What are the challenges of riding a bike in Chicago?

The biggest problem is there’s too many cars – they’re a huge threat. When people drive inconsiderately they endanger the health and well-being of cyclists and pedestrians. I think most motorists don’t really understand this.

How would you improve cycling here?

If I could wave a magic wand and change things I would get people out of their cars and onto bikes. When you take cars out of the equation things are so much more civilized. Bicycling or walking is friendly and non-threatening and you’re able to take in your environment.

What rides would you recommend to visitors?

They should definitely go on Critical Mass - that’s a fantastic, fun time and you’ll usually get a great tour of the city. For recreational rides after work or on weekends you could meet up with the Chicago Cycling Club (http://www.chicagocyclingclub.org/). If you want a more adventurous experience, the Midnight Marauders (www.sports.groups.yahoo.com/group/midnight_marauders) do kind of an urban mountain biking ride. Whatever your niche of riding is, you can find it in Chicago.


“CHOPPER” CARL HARRIS

“Chopper” Carl Harris is a bicycle courier and church organist. As his nickname suggests, he “chops” his own freak bikes and rolls with the Rat Patrol bike gang (www.geocities.com/ratpatrolhq). He’s also a Critical Mass regular, towing a sound system blasting R & B and funk.


How did you get involved in bicycling?

I always rode bikes but when met other people who love bikes the way I do, that made me more energetic. I found out when I was younger that you can use a bike to leave your neighborhood and see new things, so bikes were like my automobile.

What’s the hardest thing about riding a bike in Chicago?

The motorists, for one thing, and certain neighborhoods. The motorists, they’re in a bigger vehicle, they go faster and they think that you’re in their way. The neighborhoods you go in, depending on your ethnicity, people are gonna pick on you, bother you, whatever. Knock on wood, I haven’t had any problems.

What would you do improve biking here?

I would build more greenways that connect to each other. All the abandoned railroad lines go downtown, so it would be nice if we could build some more bike paths on them.

What bike rides or hangouts would you recommend to out-of-towners?

It depends on your style of biking. I like to ride on the lakefront – it’s peaceful and quiet. If you’re a messenger I would go to the Tom Tom. If you’re a commuter or bike activist, go to West Town. If you’re into freak bikes, the Rat Patrol is hard to track down ‘cause they don’t do nothin’ on time.


CHICAGO CYCLING LINKS:

http://www.biketraffic.org/
Chicagoland Bicycle Federation’s site featuring news on local bike issues and events plus links to cycling resources.

http://www.chicagobikes.org/
Info about the City of Chicago’s bike initiatives and the interactive Chicago Bike Map.

http://www.bikewinter.org/
Tips on riding in challenging weather and an events calendar loaded with fun all-season bike events.

http://www.cyclingsisters.org/
Practical ideas for female riders and an on-line forum that discusses ways to get more women on bikes.

http://www.askmrbike.com/
An advice column by Chicago’s Dave “Mr. Bike” Glowacz, author of the commuter’s bible: Urban Bikers’ Tips and Tricks.

http://www.chicagocuttincrew.com/
A shadowy cabal of messenger-racers holds court on the local and national alleycat, cyclocross, road and track scenes.

http://www.chicagofreakbike.org/
Documents strange human-powered vehicles on the streets of Chicago: choppers, tallbikes, cargo bikes and weirder creations.

Walking from Milwaukee to Chicago

by John Greenfield

[This piece also runs in this week's New City magazine, www.newcitychicago.com.]

It’s a Thursday evening in late June and I’m clutching a pint in the Exchequer Pub on Wabash, not drunk but completely trashed after walking a hundred miles. Kirsten Grove, the Chicago Department of Transportation’s pedestrian program coordinator, and other CDOT staff who’ve met us there raise a toast to my trek. I smile weakly and thank them but I’m distracted by my aching back, sore legs and especially my throbbing feet.

I’ve bicycled from Chicago to Milwaukee a dozen or so times, including several trips during the dead of winter on the annual Frozen Snot Century ride. But lately I’ve been getting interested in walking as a form of travel that helps me take in more of my surroundings by slowing me down.

This year I’ve made a project of hiking the length of some of our city’s key thoroughfares, like Halsted, Grand and Archer. On each trip I met cool people, ate good food, saw fascinating scenery and drank in dive bars I’d never have noticed pedaling by three times as fast.

After I checked out the book Biking on Bike Trails between Chicago & Milwaukee by Peter Blommer, it occurred to me that walking between the two cities would make for a memorable journey. Blommer details a route that takes advantage of the many multi-use paths along the way - 80% of the itinerary is car-free.

I decided to hike from the Milwaukee Art Museum to the Art Institute of Chicago over four days. To cover 25 miles a day I’d have to travel fast and light so rather than take a tent and sleeping bag I opted to “credit card camp,” staying at fleabag motels. I packed a messenger bag with the bare necessities and caught the Amtrak Hiawatha north on a Monday morning.

The Milwaukee pedestrian coordinator, Dave Schlabowske, whose brother I know from the Chicago music scene, had agreed to walk me part of the way out of town. He meets me at the station and we hoof it to Lake Michigan and the Calatrava-designed art museum with its skeletal, retractable wings. I officially start my journey at 10:40 am.

Schlabowske suggests we backtrack to the Milwaukee River and stroll south along the city’s new riverwalk lined with cafes and brewpubs. The promenade was the brainchild of ex-Mayor John Norquist who resigned during a sex scandal and now heads the Congress for the New Urbanism, based in Chicago.

After Schlabowske says farewell at the confluence of the Milwaukee, Menomonee and Kinnickinnic rivers, I follow signs for Route 32, the secondary highway that leads to Illinois, hugging the lakeshore. Soon I spy the Allen-Bradley Clock Tower, the world’s largest four-faced clock with octagonal faces nearly twice as large as Big Ben’s.


At 1st and Kinnickinic St. a mural depicts civil rights figures from around the world, from Nelson Mandela to Hmong leader Vang Pao; from Cuban political theorist Pedro Campos to Milwaukee fair-housing activist Father James Groppi. Crossing the Kinnickkinnic River I’m in the Bayview neighborhood with its many quirky independent businesses.

Grabbing a salami sandwich at an Italian grocery owned by Father Groppi’s family, I head east to Cupertino Park for a view of a marina and the city’s modest skyline. From there, as recommended by Blommer, I pick up the Oak Leaf Bike Trail heading southeast out of town past pebbly beaches full of Canada geese and into lush woods.

Emerging in a park in the suburb of Cudahy I see a multiracial group of teens playing soccer. One of the boys calls, “Look behind you.” “What’s that?” I ask. “That girl – she’s 17,” he said pointing to one of his friends. “She likes you.” I chuckle nervously and keep walking. A beefy guy with a mustache walks past them northbound and the kid tries the same gag. “Don’t cause me any problems,” warns the man.

I get back on 32 and it becomes a highway with no sidewalks as I enter the village of Oak Creek. Walking on the left shoulder facing rush hour traffic, I flag down a couple of fresh-faced bicyclists with saddlebags. Joe Bell and Colin Bortner are riding cross-country, as I’d done the previous summer. They’d started in Rochester, NY, and are heading to Seattle after visiting friends in Chicago’s western suburbs.


Well-scrubbed cyclists usually get a warm reception from curious locals, but as I continue down the busy road I realize that in our car-centric culture people who travel by foot are often viewed with suspicion. In fact most people I see walking down this highway seem to be troubled teens or down-on-their-luck adults. As the northbound commuters rush by me, my possessions on my back, I feel temporarily alienated from mainstream society, little more than a hobo.

South of Milwaukee County, the east-west roads are named, Detroit-style, according to their distance from downtown Racine. Sweaty and exhausted I take a break at the Brass Rail tavern at 6 Mile Rd. This dive has a half-assed pirate theme: Jolly Roger flags, a model ship behind the bar and numerous plastic skeletons. When I’ve nearly drained my $1 draft, the bartender, his hand in a splint, says, “Let me see that glass – there’s something wrong with it,” and refills it for free.

After a big plate of pasta at a red sauce Italian joint across the street, I walk another mile or so on 32 to the Country Inn Motel, arriving at 9:10 pm. Like most budget hotels I’ve stayed at in rural America, it’s owned by Indian-Americans, probably immigrants from the western state of Gujurat. I sleep like a baby in the cool, clean room.

The next morning I grab coffee at Mocha Lisa at 4 ½ Mile Rd. In a secluded nook of the café with a couch, a sign reads “Four drink minimum for making out in this room. This room is not available by the hour.” From there I get on the North Racine Bike Path, a rails-to-trails that goes past wetlands with blue spruce and Queen Anne’s lace with a soundtrack of chirping birds. I find myself daydreaming about various plans and schemes as I stroll.


After the path ends I get back on 32, now called Douglas Ave. and walk towards downtown Racine as cottonwood seeds blow across the gritty street. The city claims to have the largest population of Danes in the U.S., so I stop at the O & H Danish Bakery, 1841 Douglas, to sample a rich slice of kringle, the ring-shaped pastry that is the local specialty.

Racine’s boutique-lined Main Street is decorated with 3’ tall spheres, customized by artists Cows-On-Parade style. “Toulouse-Laugoose Egg” by Robert W. Anderson featured a top-hatted fowl perched on an homage to “At the Moulin Rouge” while Jeff Lavonian’s planet Earth covered with small colored glass balls is titled “The World is Losing its Marbles.”

I trek west to the towering, Wright-designed Johnson Wax building and continue through the south side on Racine St., passing the local NAACP branch. A few blocks later I notice smoke coming from the next block - the side porch of an old house is on fire. As I rubberneck from the alley with a group of locals, firefighters swiftly appear and douse the blaze.


After following 32 for a couple miles, I pick up the Racine County / Kenosha County Bike Path, another converted rail bed. Boredom sets in so I start listening to the Chicago band the Sea and Cake on my iPod. Leaving the trail on the north side of Kenosha, Wisconsin’s fourth largest city, my left shoulder is killing me from carrying my one-strap bag. There’s a message on my cell from Jim, who works with me at a bike shop. “Oh, my feet hurt,” he says. “Keep walking homie.”

I head east and walk downtown on a lakefront bike path lake, soothed by view of the cobalt water and air scented with honeysuckle. Catching sight of the red Pierhead Lighthouse I feel the beginnings of blisters on my toes and stop to adjust my socks.

Crossing a bridge over a marina into town I stop at Paddy O’s Pub, 5022 5th Ave., for a cold one. “Zippy” the bartender, wears a bushy beard, a straw cowboy hat and a “Nuke the Whales” t-shirt. He’s telling the regulars about going to Pazzo’s, a fancy local Italian restaurant, with a buddy one afternoon and spending $200 on wine and snails.


“We were drunk and I was dressed like this, so when the suits started showing up for dinner they asked us to leave,” he complains. “Sounds like a civil rights lawsuit to me,” says a barfly with a few teeth missing. “It was no problem,” says Zippy. “I just went in their bathroom and pissed all over their toilet paper.”

At sunset I sneak into the Keno Drive-In Theater on the south side of town. I figure it’s OK since I don’t have a car and I’m buying a brat at the snack bar. “Kung Fu Panda” is playing so I sit on my raincoat on the grassy area in front of the screen within earshot of car radios tuned to the soundtrack. As a scruffy, single man watching a children’s movie I seem to be mistaken for a sexual predator - one of the families next to me drives off and parks in a different spot.

I’d called RV Sports Motel in Pleasant Prairie that afternoon, and the owner, also Indian-American, assured me I’d have no problem getting in. But when I show up after the movie he says the place is full. I protest and he offers me a shabby room with no hot water at full price, but promises I can bathe in another unit in the morning. Grimy, I take a painfully cold shower anyway and go to bed slightly resentful and a little lonely.

Crossing the “Cheddar Curtain” on Day 3, I’m struck by how the scenery immediately changes from pretty, rolling terrain to grim flatlands when you enter Illinois. The main drag of Winthrop Harbor, IL, the state’s northeastern-most town and home of the largest marina on the Great Lakes, is lined with gas stations, liquor stores and bait shops.


I breakfast in Zion, founded in 1901 by Scotsman John Alexander Dowie as a home for his sect the Christian Catholic Church. North-south streets named after biblical people and places are reminders of the city’s roots as a theocracy. At the Star Lite Restaurant, I enjoy a chili omelet but I’m curious about the Ballpark Skillet: eggs, potatoes, green peppers, onions, American cheese and sliced hotdogs.

On the west side of town I pick up the Robert McClory Bike Trail but in Waukegan, the blue-collar city that produced Ray Bradbury and Jack Benny, I grow tired of the monotonous, dead-straight trail and detour into neighborhood streets. A Rottweiler chained on a front lawn barks and lunges at me. I’m in a foul mood from my aching feet, so when the owner comes out I yell at her. “You should keep your dog on a shorter leash. No one can use the sidewalk.” “Do you live in this neighborhood?” she demands. “No, but I’m allowed to walk here,” I fire back.

Returning to the path I walk through a glass-strewn industrial area near Great Lakes Naval Training Center in North Chicago and pass a Metra station, tempted to hop a train home. Entering Lake Bluff I abruptly find myself in the posh northern suburbs that are the backdrop for John Hughes’ teen comedies.

I rest on a bench in the village square and take stock of my throbbing extremities. The blisters are getting bigger and hurt so much I’m wondering if I’ll be able to keep walking. But soon after gulping painkillers outside a Lake Forest Walgreens my feet become miraculously numb.

I detour into the Fort Sheridan development, formerly a military installation that housed the troops who stormed Chicago to shut down the Pullman Strike in 1894, leading to the deaths of 13 workers. There I admire a lifelike statue of a soldier on horseback, wearing a Civil War-style cap and holding a banner, galloping off into the now setting sun.


Trudging south down Sheridan Road I’ve got my fingers crossed that the Hotel Moraine actually exists. When I’d searched the Internet for cheap lodging in the ritzy North Shore, the hotel at 700 N. Sheridan in Highwood seemed to be my only option, but every time I called I got voicemail.

Suddenly it’s looming in front of me, a five-story brick box with lettering in big, gold cursive, and my heart leaps. But as I get nearer I see there’s only a car or two in the parking lot. The lobby’s dark; power tools and an Orange Crush box lie on the floor.

My hopes of sleeping indoors dashed, I accept that I’m going to have to crash in the woods somewhere. I buy a baby blanket in a dollar store and brood about my fate over a cheeseburger on pumpernickle at the Nite ‘N’ Gale, an old-school cocktail lounge with red leather booths and LeRoy Neiman prints.

As I approach Ravinia Park along the Green Bay Trail in the dark, the path is packed with fans leaving a Robert Plant and Alison Krause concert. I’m wearing my headlamp and one woman looks startled I pass her. “David, are you there?” she cries. “What’s the matter,” says David. “Are you afraid of the miner guy?”

Heading a bit west along the Lake-Cook county line I find a little mowed patch in a forest preserve just off of Green Bay Rd., next to the Chicago Botanic Gardens. It’s hidden from the police by surrounding tall grass but close enough to the highway for protection from serial killers.

The night is chilly and misty, so I put on all the clothes I have with me, cinch the hood of my raincoat around my head, place a plastic bag under my behind and wrap the tiny baby blanket around my bare legs. I feel new sympathy for homeless people. I’m just barely warm enough and mosquitoes harass me all night, but earplugs and eyeshades block the sound and lights of traffic and I manage to get a few hours sleep.

In the morning the Green Bay Trail takes me through Glencoe and Winnetka to Kenilworth where I cut east to Sheridan Rd. and a view of the lake. Nearing the Baha’i Temple, that giant orange juicer made of lacey, white concrete, the road is torn up for many blocks for sewer renovations and for once I’m glad to be on foot instead of two wheels.

The Evanston Arts Center, next door to a lighthouse, features an installation of giant bottle shapes sunk into the front lawn, assembled from actual glass bottles decorated with black magic marker. I detour onto a peninsula next to the Northwestern campus and catch an inspiring view of the Loop.


Heading back west to Clark St. with my feet feeling like lumps of clay I soon pass the Calvary Catholic Cemetery and cross Howard St. into Chicago’s Rogers Park neighborhood. I’m glad to be back in my city, but a little disappointed by a depressing view of strip malls and big box stores of the new Gateway Center. Fortunately, this “Geography of Nowhere” landscape quickly yields to miles of diverse small businesses.

On my way downtown on Clark I see restaurants offering almost every known ethnic cuisine and I immediately stop at Cuetzala restaurant, 7350 N. The al pastor (Mexican gyros), tilapia and cabeza (cow head) tacos are tasty, but due to the recent salmonella scare there are no tomatoes in the fresh salsa, just chopped onions, garlic, cilantro and chiles.


Soon I’m in Andersonville with its colorful shops, sidewalk cafes and a couple of my favorite taverns, Simon’s and the Hopleaf. Passing Graceland Cemetery and Wrigley Field, I head a bit east to the Addison Red Line station and pick up Kirsten Grove, who’d agreed to escort me downtown so my pilgrimage would be bookended by the ped coordinators from both towns. Since CDOT employees are not supposed talk to the media without prior approval, I promise her that any discussions we have along the way about narrow sidewalks or dangerous intersections will be off-the-record.

In Old Town we head south on Wells St. to chat with a couple of other CDOT staffers who are conducting bicycle traffic counts, then walk east on Erie to Michigan. It’s exhilarating to complete my journey by joining the rush hour throngs on the Magnificent Mile, one of America’s busiest thoroughfares.


We snap a few pictures by one of the Art Institute’s bronze lions then adjourn to the old-school Exchequer, a few blocks away. After I regale the group with road stories I feel nearly comatose from physical exhaustion plus the twin soporifics of beer and deep-dish pizza, so I spring for a cab home.

As I’m standing in the shower with the warm water soothing my shoulders, it occurs to me that I’ve finished the longest walk of my life. And I feel like I know the territory between Milwaukee and Chicago intimately now – I’ve stitched together the two towns.

Sitting on my bed I stare at my feet once more. Yellow, fluid-filled pillows have blossomed on both of my pinky toes, between my right big toe and its neighbor, and on the ball of my right foot. Despite the pain, at this moment I’m happy and satisfied: proud of my accomplishment and thrilled to be spending the night indoors.

Strolling 63rd Street

Walking 63rd offers a taste of Lithuanian, Middle Eastern and African-American culture

By John Greenfield

My project to walk the length of Chicago’s major streets always takes me to tasty grub, interesting sights, cool taverns and friendly people. Having hiked the length of Western, Milwaukee, Halsted, Archer and Grand, it’s time to walk another South Side thoroughfare, so why not 63rd Street?

At 11 miles, 63rd is basically Chicago’s longest continuous east-west street. It definitely is if you add Hayes Drive, its 3/4-mile extension through Jackson Park to the 63rd Street Beach. It’s a little less than halfway down the city’s South Side and it provides a good sampling of some of the different cultures that have helped shape the region.

After puttering around the house and waiting for a friend to drop off my guitar, I don’t wind up leaving Humboldt Park until well into the afternoon on Saturday, September 6. As I’d done on my Archer trek, I take the CTA Forest Park Line to Harlem, then catch the Pace 403 bus south, getting off around 3 pm just a mile further south this time. But this walk would be pretty different, since Archer veers northeast from 55th Street, while 63rd heads due east from the suburb of Summit to Lake Michigan.

63rd and Harlem is a fairly insane intersection of two eight-lane arteries, which doesn’t seem to bode well for the trip. I’d also read in the Tribune about a tragedy that happened two blocks west in Summit’s Robert Allison housing project a few days earlier. A young mother had fallen asleep with a candle lit; she survived the resulting blaze by jumping out of a second-story window but her three young children perished.


At the southeast corner I see a truck with “SHRIMP - CREDIT CARDS WELCOME” painted in big red block letters on the side, parked outside Mr. Shrimp, a seedy seafood shack, 7157 W. 63rd. I choose an alligator nugget dinner from the menu, which also includes fried oysters, lobster and frogs’ legs. An ancient, nearly toothless gentleman in a paper hat is the lone staffer – he says he’s been working there 50 years. While I respect his staying power, the little man seems confused and shuffles slowly around the galley.

But the food appears faster than I’d hoped. I ask for hot sauce and the man seems to ignore me and retreats to the kitchen. “Go ahead and ask again,” says a female customer, “It’s worth it.” I repeat my request and the man angrily yells, “I heard you!” as he returns with the sauce. I take the box to nearby Nottingham Park and find the fries and breading are tasty, but the salty carnivore meat is almost too chewy to chaw. That’s the last time I eat gator.

63rd is soon tamed down to a four-lane, lined with Eisenhower-era, two-story brick homes with stone accents which give way to bungalows. The neighborhood, bordering Midway Airport, is called Clearing, because agricultural products were to be “cleared”(transported) via the airport and railroads.

I pass by Hale Park, 6300 W., where white and Latino kids are playing soccer and baseball. As I’m checking out the Touch of Class Lounge, 6058 W., a young woman with a Muslim headscarf drives by. Across the street, the Record Dugout, 6053 W., has a great selection of baseball memorabilia and vintage vinyl.

A copy of Male magazine, the ‘50s precursor to Men’s Health, features a cover painting of a Hemingway stand-in shooting a tiger who’s mauling a loin-clothed local. A story by a prominent psychologist asks, “Is There a Lesbian in Your Town?” Not wanting to leave empty-handed I randomly pick up a 45 of the song “Ting Ting Tong” by the doo-wap group the Charms, priced at $3. The owner, impressed by my taste, lets me have it for a buck less.

Intrigued by its vintage, hand-painted red door, I stop into Pete & Mary’s, 5908 W. for a beer around 5 pm. As usual in remote neighborhood bars the Polish-accented barmaid scrutinizes my drivers license, but this time she rejects it as expired, then apologizes when I prove her wrong. Sipping on a Highlife, I check out the tiny beer garden, a photo of the Pope John Paul II next to pictures of patrons with pumpkins, and a poster of a woman sitting at a bar with a sign reading “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” She’s wearing a shirt and shoes but she’s not wearing any pants or underwear and the man at the next barstool is staring bug-eyed at her behind.

On the 5600 block, new Wrigleyville-style townhouses seem to be built as housing for flight crews based out of Midway, a stone’s throw away. Crossing Central Ave., I’m at the southeast corner of the one-mile square airport. A Southwest Airlines jumbo jet attempted to land on a snowy runway on December 8, 2005, and slid through a barrier fence, crushing a car on Central near 63rd, killing a six-year-old boy.


Through a stretch of chain-link fence I can see the towers of the Loop on the other side of the empty expanse. I pass by an Illinois National Guard station at 5400 W., then see the Obama campaign’s plane parked on a runway, emblazoned with the candidate’s rising sun logo and the slogan, “Change we can believe in.”

Crossing Cicero Ave., 4800 W., a high-speed 8-lane, I’m in the community of West Lawn. My feet are already getting tired after only three miles; oxford shoes were definitely a bad choice of footwear. Next time I’ll switch back to Sambas.

I come upon Winston’s Sausages, 4701 W., an Irish-style butcher shop topped by a huge fiberglass steer. My friend T. C. O'Rourke buys bangers, soda bread and black and white puddings there each year for brunch before our annual bike ride to the South Side Irish Parade on the far Southwest Side.

By now it’s around 6 pm, rain looks like a possibility and the sun will be setting soon. It would be stupid for me, a not particularly streetwise outsider, to travel alone, on foot, after dark through the Englewood neighborhood a few miles down the road, with the highest crime rate in the city. I decide to bail for the day and take the nearby Orange Line downtown to catch Anna Biller’s “Viva,” a hilarious homage to '70s sexploitation flicks, at the Gene Siskel Center.

But before I hop on the train I stop for another brew at Mr. C’s Midway Bar, 4654 W. It’s probably the only tavern for many miles with Blue Moon and Stella Artois on tap, but that doesn’t mean it’s a highbrow joint. Vintage photos of the airport and a model plane made of Miller Lite cans attest to its proximity to the runways.


A sign behind the bar declares, “Sexual harassment will not be reported but it will be graded.” Accordingly, a short, top-heavy woman is loudly teasing a male friend about the size of his genitals. “Rack ‘em up,” says a pool player. “I got a perfect rack already,” the woman quips.

“I fell asleep on a booty call last night,” reports a man at the bar. “I woke up on the couch holding a beer with the woman’s kids laughing at me. I hadn’t spilled a drop.”

That Tuesday I catch the California / Kedzie bus south to the Orange Line and resume my walk from Mr. C’s at 1 pm in gorgeous weather. Tigress Coiffures, 4352 W., features an adorable cartoon of the eponymous feline on its sign while Midway Banquet Hall and Lounge, 4222 W., has classy vintage neon.


On the 4100 block a paleteria, a panaderia and a botanica (popsicle shop, bakery and herb-and-charm store, respectively) stand side by side. Most of 63rd is peppered with Latino businesses until the street becomes solidly African-American east of California, 2800 W.

At Pulaski, 4000 W., a huge statue of a bespectacled Native American, featured in the movie “Wayne’s World”, tops the Midwest Eye Clinic. Locals will tell you that if you approach from the west the brave’s left thumb appears to be his penis hanging out of his pants. Sadly, someone has broken the eagle feather off his head since the last time I pedaled by.

To the southeast is Marquette Park, a historically Lithuanian neighborhood. I detour south two blocks to the Balzekas Museum of Lithuanian Culture, 6500 S. Pulaski, which seems to be staffed entirely by attractive, 40s-ish blondes. They invite me to sit alone in a small theater to watch a tourism film about their homeland, which makes Vilnius look like a pretty happening town.


The small museum is chock full of mildly interesting stuff: stone-age axes; crossbows and suits of armor; amber jewelry; dolls and mannequins in traditional costumes; ornate Easter eggs and a collection of vintage canned ham, sausage and luncheon meat. I make a note to return there with my ¼-Lithuanian girlfriend when I have more time.

Back on 63rd, I enter a stretch from Pulaski to Kedzie, 3200 W., where many Arab-owned businesses opened during the late 20th Century. There seem to be fewer today, as large numbers of Muslims have settled in suburbs like Bridgeview and Oak Lawn. A couple of the Middle Eastern restaurants I’d read about in Sharon Woodhouse's A Native’s Guide to Chicago are gone, but the Aladdin Club, 3831 W., is still there.

Although there’s an image of a hookah on the storefront and a real one behind the counter, the owner tells me that the alcohol-free café is simply a place to drink coffee and socialize, now that the city has gone smokeless. “It’s a private club, mostly for Arabian people,” he says politely as three or four older guys look on. There are boxes of Middle Eastern candy on the counter and several video gambling machines at the front of the room.


Olive Mount Imported Food, 3526 W., features a well-organized selection of interesting Middle Eastern groceries like pickled labna cheese and halal meat, including bins of lamb kidneys, hearts and lungs. There are also long-handled metal coffee pots, bins of black tea and a wide variety of fruit-flavored hookah tobacco. A Palestinian flag hangs at the back of the store.

After buying some nuts and candies, I walk a little east for lunch at the hole-in-the-wall Nile Restaurant, 3259 W. I try the kalaya, a hearty, chili-like stew of diced beef, onions and tomatoes served over rice with a side of pickled cucumbers and carrots.

East of Kedzie, 3200 W., two teens on BMX bikes pedal past me on the sidewalk. The first boy smooches at a girl walking westbound; she smiles and swats at the head of the second one. I pass by the offices of 15th Ward Alderman Toni Foulkes, 3045 W., then stop to check out Nate’s Leathers, 2950 W., specializing in gear for police officers like jackets, holsters and body armor.

There’s no one in the shop, which smells strongly of dead cow. The young, cop-like owner soon returns from outside with a German shepherd with a spiked collar, eyeing me suspiciously. After I explain my mission he relaxes and tells me about his business, sewing everything from custom boat covers to bulletproof vests on the premises.

After I cross California into West Englewood, a well-dressed man approaches me as I’m checking out the stonework of St. Rita Parish church, 6243 S. Fairfield. “Excuse me sir, may I have a cigarette?” he asks. “I don’t smoke, sorry,” I apologize.


Soon liquor-food-lottery stores and fast food joints with bulletproof glass dominate the street. As I pass a group of teens outside a hoagie shop one of them spits at the ground near my feet. A man walks by with a shopping cart full of children’s bicycles and car tires.

But there are signs of revitalization in what has long been one of Chicago’s poorest communities. Garifuna Flava, 2516 W. is a spotless new Belizean restaurant with tasty-sounding dishes like conch fritters, cow foot soup and “boil-up”: boiled cassava, sweet potatoes and plantains with stewed fish, pig tails and dumplings.

I drop into a new Chicago Public Library branch at 1745 W. to use the bathroom and find the library to be a spacious, airy, state-of-the-art facility with a nice garden with seating next door. A child and family center next door features bold architecture, including a futuristic ribbon of stainless steel connecting one wing of the building to another.

Mural on an El piller near the Ashland Green Line stop

Long Grove Cleaners, 1146 W., has jacket-length doors in the bulletproof Plexiglas through which patrons pass their clothes. A mural on the side of Neighborhood Food and Liquors, 1122 W., is a crash course in Chicago-style fast food with images of a loaded hotdog, an Italian sausage-beef combo sandwich, gyros and rib tips. When I stop to photo it one of the employees invites me to tour the clean, orderly grocery store and lunch counter. A trained meat-cutter, years ago he slaughtered hogs in the stockyards for the Ampeg Meatpacking Co., and seems proud of his present workplace.

When Kevin Monahan and I walked Halsted, 800 W., last December we saw new Kennedy-King College buildings that had been constructed at 63rd, the former site of the Englewood Shopping Center, but there wasn’t much open yet. Now there is a book store and a copy center; student radio and TV stations; and the Washburne Culinary Institute. Sikia, a student-run restaurant at 740 W. offers dishes from Africa and the black Diaspora, from Moroccan tangine to Jamaican jerked chicken, Ethiopian curries to Louisiana gumbo.

A block east at 63rd and Wallace St., as detailed in The Devil in the White City, Dr. H. H. Homes built his World’s Fair Hotel in anticipation of the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Jackson Park. The 60-room building was a maze of hidden staircases, trapdoors, dungeons and gas chambers that later became known as the Murder Castle. Homes lured dozens, maybe hundreds of young women to their deaths there, selling their skeletons to medical schools. Nowadays the site is the Englewood Post Office.


At Englewood High, 400 W., “Home of the Mighty Eagles,” the football team practices on a field in front of the school, their purple and white uniforms covered in grass stains. By 6 pm I’m crossing the Dan Ryan Expressway, 200 W., which was recently enlarged to seven lanes in each direction. The southbound rush hour traffic is still moving slowly, proving the urban planning adage, “You can’t build your way out of congestion.”

The land between the interstate and the Green Line stop at King Dr., 400 E., is largely vacant lots. Near the station a flock of seagulls flying under the tracks reminds me I’m getting close to the lake. This area in the Woodlawn neighborhood is dense with businesses. I hear the crack of the pool balls as I pass a pool hall, note the Plexiglas shield in front of the neon sign for a Rothschild’s Liquors, and see the men hard at work at Turner’s Professional Shoeshine, 438 E.

I like the slogan of the sign of the Kozy Korner tavern, 461 E., “Where old friends meet,” so I venture inside. “How can we help you?” asks a dapper gentleman sitting near the door. “Oh, I was going to get a beer,” I say. “Well, alright then, make yourself at home.” I take a seat at the far end of the bar and introduce myself to Niecie the bartender, explaining what I’m up to. Sipping on a Highlife I check out the room. There’s a large, old-fashioned streetlamp in the center and mirrors framed by plastic roses. A photo of Barack Obama hangs on the wall and Smokey Robinson’s on the jukebox. The crowd of well-dressed middle-aged and older professional folks seems to be having a great time, laughing non-stop.

Cliff Pierce, the manager who’d greeted me, soon joins me at the bar and buys me my second beer. He used to write a gossip Column for the Chicago Defender. “You’re a rare bird, but not for long,” he tells me. “It’s only 10 minutes from my house to the Black House [Obama’s home in Kenwood.] We’re talking about where the next president lives. And then there are the Olympics in Washington Park. So in the next ten years this neighborhood is going to become the hub. One day I’m gonna look out this window and see nothing but limousines.”


Buzzed, I continue strolling toward the Cottage Grove stop as the sun is setting. Although it’s only been a few hours since lunch, I’m ready to eat again so I stop for dinner at Daley’s Restaurant, 809 E., a soul food diner highly recommended by the Chicago Reader’s Mike Sula. The menu’s illustrated with photos of the Columbian Exposition and there are photos of local politicians on the walls. My meal of chicken soup, salmon croquettes, mashed potatoes and greens is cheap and excellent. As I return to the counter to leave a tip the waitress takes the bills directly from my hand. “You have a blessed evening,” she says with a smile.

A few years ago, the easternmost Green Line stop at Woodlawn, 1200 E., and four blocks of track were removed to make way for development, but I suspect the idea was to create a buffer zone between the rowdy commercial areas under the tracks and the new upscale townhouses. There’s a half-mile of vacant lots between Cottage Grove and the homes, a few blocks of pleasant, but eerily quiet, residences.

I pass the Apostolic Church of God mega church at 6320 S. Dorchester; the headquarters of the Woodlawn Organization community group at 1508 E. 63rd; and Leon’s on Six Tre restaurant, 1528 E., featuring ribs, tips and chicken. 63rd Street officially ends at Stony Island, 1600 E., the border of Jackson Park, but although it’s getting late and I’m tired I decide to soldier on down Hayes St. to the 63rd Street Beach.

Walking through the park I hear a group of men hanging out by their cars, blasting dancehall reggae, speaking loudly in a Caribbean patois, possibly relaxing after playing soccer in the park. Halfway to Lake Shore I see the Statue of the Republic, AKA the Golden Lady, a 24-foot-tall gilded bronze sculpture of a robed woman holding aloft an eagle and a staff symbolizing national unity. It’s actually a 1/3-scale reproduction of the Daniel Chester French original from the World’s Fair.

As I approach the lake I can see moonlight glinting off Jackson Harbor, smell barbecue wafting up from a party at the boathouse and hear African drumming coming from just south of the beach. I take the recently built underpass below Lake Shore Drive and emerge to see the Romanesque arches of the grand beach house, which was rehabbed a decade ago. I make my way to the wide beach and stroll down the plastic wheelchair track to the edge of the rushing lake. Dipping my fingers in the cool water, my journey is done.

Walking Grand Avenue

by John Greenfield

When I was trying to decide which local thoroughfare to take on next, Grand Ave. sprang to mind as an archetypal Chicago street. Years ago I hiked all of Western and Milwaukee Avenues. Recently I completed Halsted and Archer as part of a new project to walk the length of all the city’s major streets while seeing the sights, eating good, cheap food and visiting interesting dive bars.

Grand started out as a rough Indian trail, originally called Whisky Point Road, according to Streetwise Chicago by Don Hayner and Tom McNamee (Loyola University Press 1988.) Its name is believed to come from the city’s first town president, Col. Thomas, J.V. Owen, who declared, “Chicago is a grand place to live.”

Nowadays the avenue runs about 12 miles through town, heading southeast from the suburb of Elmwood Park, then due east to Navy Pier. The street provides a cross-section of the city’s architectural and transportation features. Ranging from old-fashioned, pedestrian-oriented retail to the skyscraper canyons of River North, crossing Metra tracks, the Kennedy Expressway, the Chicago River, three CTA El lines and Lake Shore Drive, ending at Lake Michigan, Grand represents the city’s center of gravity.


This was the first time I’d walked a street on a workday. I caught the #72 North Avenue bus west from Humboldt Park on the warm, gray morning of Wednesday, June 4, then transferred to the #65 Grand Avenue. After walking a couple blocks west from the bus terminal at Nordica St., 7030 W., at 10 am I tagged the “Welcome to Elmwood Park” sign at Harlem Ave. 7200 W. and backtracked into the Chicago neighborhood of Mont Clare.

Mont Clare’s business strip was streetscaped a few years ago with Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired pylons and new signs on the streetlamps that say “City of Chicago / I Will / Grand Avenue” but it still feels like a small-town main street from the 1950s. I passed by Grand Cycle, 7160 W., which specializes in BMX and lowrider bicycles and skateboards, then crossed the street to gawk at a huge model schooner in the window of Julie’s furniture, 7163 W. “Nice ship, huh?,” said a woman pedaling by on the sidewalk. “Beautiful.”


I returned to the Terminal Snack Shop, 7030 W., next to the bus turnaround, and downed some coffee and a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on white toast as I admired the orange walls and oil paintings of lush landscapes with waterfalls and snow-capped mountains. I continued on past the castle-like Galewood-Mont Clare branch of the Chicago Public Library and Bill & Michelle’s Question Mark Bar, 6918 W.

Soon I was jolted back into the modern era as I hit a nasty stretch of car dealerships, chain restaurants and the Bricktown Square shopping plaza. So it was refreshing when I saw something unique: the World’s Largest Wagon outside the Radio Flyer corporate headquarters, 6515 W. It’s 27’ long with 8’ diameter wheels; it took 100 gallons of red paint to cover it. Inside the lobby I read about the company’s founder, Italian immigrant Antonio Pasin, who eventually produced the wagons on an automobile-style assembly line, earning him the nickname “The Little Ford.”


At Narragansett, 6400 W., small businesses appeared again, with many of the signs in Spanish. The menu at El Guanaco Salvadorian Restaurant, 6345 W., features pupusas - thick discs of corn or rice dough with various savory fillings - as well as platters of fried yucca and sweet plantains served with beans and sour cream. Paleteria Currucel, 6315 W., had a dozen or so Mexican ice cream carts parked inside. I tried on some cowboy shirts next door at Almacenes Western Wear but they were all a little flashy for my taste.

Soon afterwards the street became residential for the first time on my walk with several evergreen trees, rare in this city, including a few beautiful blue spruce. At Melvina, 6200 W., I was reminded of an old, off-color joke: “What three streets in Chicago rhyme with the name of a woman's sex organ?” Please ask someone else for the answer.

Supreme Frozen Products, 5813 W., is a wholesaler specializing in the kind of American-style tamales sold at hot dog stands. I recently read a piece in the Chicago Reader about a foodie who is researching the origin of the Mother-in-Law sandwich, a tamale in a hotdog bun, covered with chili. The man I talked to at Supreme said he had never heard of the Mother-in-Law. When I described it he said, “Oh, you mean a tamale boat?”


The day was getting hotter as I passed the Fade Factory, 5747 W., a barbershop offering “graphics, hot shaves, nails, fades and braids” to a Latino clientele. Reflecting the area’s changing demographics, a storefront at 5637 W. which I remembered as Smiler Coogan’s, a “Wayne’s World”-style rock club, was now a bar called Teloloapan featuring Mexican music acts like Grupo Los Pickaros. A “Please Leave Quietly” sign on the wall was still covered with stickers for bands like Bulkhead, Insult to Injury and Occasional Pimp.

At busy Central Ave., 5600 W., I saw Prosser Vocational High School and the vast green expanse of Hanson Park to my left. To my right were a Cook County Circuit Court building and the Chicago Police Area Five headquarters. In June of 1998, after a Bulls game police officers and civilians partied late into the night in the parking lot behind the police station. Officer George Wilson drove home drunk in his pick-up that morning and struck Sophia Latuszkin, 66, as she tried to cross Harlem Ave. in Elmwood Park. She was killed; he fled the scene as bystanders wrote down his plate number. Wilson was sentence to five years in prison and only wound up serving 20 months.


A few blocks later outside a firehouse at 5252 W., I saw a tiny pond sunk into the pavement with a fountain fashioned from a fire hydrant and goldfish swimming in the murky, green water. I stopped into Del Rey Tortilleria, 5201 W., to buy some buenelitos, pieces of crisp fried flour tortillas covered with cinnamon sugar. A large shrine in the otherwise stark room included images of Jesus, Our Lady of Guadalupe and Pope John Paul II, plus flowers and large Christmas ornaments.

At Lemke Screw Products, 4911 W., I peeked through the window bars of the low industrial building to see workers laboring at big, old-fashioned lathes to the whir of machine belts and large fans. Up the street at Las Islas Marias, 4750 W., a big fiberglass lobster was perched above a sign for various seafood dishes, touting their health benefits: “Bienvenidos a su vitamina” – welcome to your vitamin. A block later I saw the rear end of the city’s only Wal-Mart, 4655 W., and the scenery changed once again to chain retail and giant parking lots.

Outside a school bus garage at 4253 W., a group of heavy-set, middle-aged ladies smoked and joked as they killed time between runs, one of the women sitting on a hydrant. It was getting really hot and I was ready for a beer. A man in a Puerto Rican flag t-shirt pedaled by on a BMX bike, riding one-handed while eating a long, cherry Flav-R-Ice.


At Pulaski Ave., 4000 W., Jimmy’s Hotdogs, in business since 1954, had a large sign for Supreme Tamales featuring the image of an alluring senorita. Just east Cedric’s Auto service was topped by a bearded fiberglass giant, a dead ringer for Paul Bunyan, holding up a piece of bent pipe.


So far I had encountered mostly Latinos on the street with a smattering of Caucasians, but for the next few block I saw mainly African-Americans. Unfortunately I wasn’t hungry enough yet for lunch at CJ’s Diner, 3839 W., a soul food place recommended by a friend for its biscuits and gravy. The door of the C. O. G. I. C. church youth center, 3839 W., was flanked by paintings of graceful angels.


At Monticello, 3632 W., I could just make out the Sears Tower through the warm haze. I finally stopped for a cold one at the Lite Inn, 3614 W., the first open bar I’d noticed on the trip. A few patrons were conversing in Spanish with soft Caribbean accents as “The People’s Court” played on TV. There wasn’t much in the way of décor except for a few sombreros hanging from a wall. For some reason there was a whole row of Cook’s Champagne bottles behind the bar.

The elderly, mustachioed bartender scrutinized my ID carefully before serving me an icy bottle of Corona with lime. Next to me a guy in a white apron, probably a cook from the Puerto Rican sandwich shop next door, sipped a Coronita, the 6.7-oz version. After all, it was business hours.


A wonderful smell of pizza wafted out as I passed an industrial bakery at Spauding, 3300 W. Soon afterwards I spotted my first hipster of the day, a young white guy with long sideburns, a short-sleeve cowboy shirt and a Greek fisherman’s cap, riding a yellow fixed-gear bike with a pad on the top tube emblazoned with a lightning bolt.

At an industrial building at 3100 W., I saw an odd sign for Nature House, makers of the original aluminum purple martin bird feeders, so I rang the bell. Out came Larry Coffey, plant manager for Erva Tool & Manufacturing Co., which recently bought the birdhouse company.


A recent transplant from Griggsville, in west-central Illinois, Coffey speaks with a country twang. He explained that purple martins migrate from South America to the U.S. each year. West of the Rockies they live in woodpecker holes and cactuses and build mud nests under highway overpasses but for unknown reasons they can’t build nests in the East and rely on man-made shelters.

He brought me into a showroom filled with various lawn ornaments and plant hooks as well as the large, pagoda-like feeders. A vintage sign showed a cartoon of a smiling martin with the legend “2,000 mosquitoes per bird.” “They claimed a purple martin could eat 2,000 mosquitoes a day,” said Coffey. “I do know that in Griggsville, when the martins were in town you didn’t have to worry about bugs but when they left it was time to bring out the citronella.”


Moving on, I passed by Taco El Jalciense Mexican restaurant, squeezed into a narrow triangular lot at the southeast corner of Grand and Chicago Ave., 800 N. A block later I saw a hypodermic needle lying on the sidewalk, something I’ve never noticed before. I walked along the massive Metra yard near California Ave. (2800 W.,) then passed the Chicago School of Ballet, 2635 W.

As I walked by Smith Park, 2550 W., I remembered a recent article from the Chicago Journal about a controversy over creating a new garden at the park which is diving residents along ethnic lines. Some who feel the park is part of the Ukrainian Village community want the garden to be a memorial to the Ukrainian famine, called the Holodomor, which killed millions of people in 1933. Others who call the area Smith Park and consider it an Italian-American neighborhood want the garden to be dedicated to police officer Michael Ceriale who was shot during a narcotics stakeout in 1998.


I’d been walking southeast for many miles but Grand flattened out at Western Ave. and becomes an east-west street. The site is marked by Josh Garber’s sculpture “Episodic,” powder-blue steel pipes that loop into the sky in a Mobius strip-like form.

It was 2:15 pm and a cool breeze was blowing in from the lake. I decided to stop for lunch at Hound Dog’s Burgers and Teriyaki, 2252 W., a greasy spoon that serves Asian dishes like Bulgogi (Korean BBQ) as well as tacos, pizza puffs and other fast food staples. I got a big bowl of bibimbap: rice topped with marinated beef, carrots, cucumbers, bean sprouts, spinach and a fried egg with a side of red chili sauce - delicious.


Down the street at 1924 W. I saw an odd house I had passed by many times before on my bicycle but had never really noticed. The second story has a wild west-style façade, and in addition to a large American flag and a few geese ornaments the place has year-round Christmas decorations: lights, snowmen and a dozen plastic candy canes attached to the railing of the balcony.

At Wood St., 1800 W., the downtown skyscrapers started to come into focus. I passed by Betty’s Blue Star Lounge, 1600 W., formerly a dive bar and now a velvet rope dance club. Signs on the window said “Dress code strictly enforced” and “Notice: per Chicago ordinance this premises under 24-hour video surveillance.”

I was entering the dense Near West Side business strip which includes many old-school Italian restaurants, grocery stores and bakeries, as well as trendy newer bars and cafes. Above the Twisted Spoke, 1226 W., a motorcycle -themed bar, a skeleton perched on an antique bike rotated in the sky. Next door a fluffy, gray cat snoozed in the window of an empty storefront.


The sun burst through the clouds as I crossed over the Kennedy Expressway around 900 W. and the break in the buildings provided a panoramic view of the Loop above the canal of roaring traffic. At Halsted, 800 W., I passed a Blue Line station as well as Richard’s Bar, an old man bar with a storefront painted red, white and green and photos of famous Italian-Americans hanging inside.

Just east of Halsted I ducked into the Salvation Army store at 509 N. Union to continue my search for a summer shirt. Years ago, I’d gone there to shop for a bed and was looking at single beds. The older lady who helped me said, “Young man, I suggest you buy a double bed because there may be some situations in the future where that may be useful.” On this visit, as I went upstairs to the clothing department people were assisting an elderly woman in a wheelchair who seemed to be having some kind of seizure. As I left, paramedics from the fire department were storming into the thrift shop.

As I approached the Chicago River I saw many new residential highrises sprouting up and the Kennedy’s Ohio Street feeder was visible and audible to my left. I enjoyed the fine view of the Loop from the bridge, then went down to check out a new fountain and river walk by Kingsbury Plaza, a tall, blue tower. Historically, Chicago’s riverfront has been underutilized but nowadays the City requires developers to create sections of walkway when they build on its banks, so eventually you may be able the walk and bike along the entire length of the river.


I passed under a speeding Brown Line train at Franklin, 300 W., and Grand became one-way westbound a block later. The Anti-Cruelty Society animal shelter, 157 W., was adorned with Art Deco bas-reliefs of robed figures nurturing a cat, a dog and a horse. Looking south as I strolled I spied the twin corn cobs of Marina City at State St., 1 W., and then at Wabash, 30 E., the Trump Tower, whose looming, zig-zag structure echoes that of the Sear Tower. At Rush St., 130 E., all four corners of the intersection were occupied by beige, concrete boxes with chain restaurants or a Marriot lobby at ground level, topped by several stories of windowless parking garage. Pretty depressing.

After passing through the sketchy dimness of Lower Michigan Ave. for a block, I emerged into the sunlight to see that a strange, low-lying fog obscured Navy Pier, my finish line. I stopped into Boston Blackies, 162 E., a tavern I’d been meaning to check out for a while. The décor seemed to be a 1970’s vision of the 1920’s with houseplants, lots of brass and a mural behind the bar showing a glamorous gangster scene: big city skyscrapers, a naked moll leaning backwards against a chair, and the large face of Blackie himself, a handsome, dark-eyed youth with slicked-back hair.

I ordered a Boston Blackies Amber, made by west-suburban Two Brothers Brewing Company, and listened to attorneys and other late-middle aged folks at the bar talk politics with the bartender and the owner, an elderly Greek immigrant. Local political fundraiser Tony Rezko had just been convicted of several counts of corruption. “I bet he’ll be real popular in prison,” said the barkeep. A news report on TV said Chicago was chosen as one of the top finalists to host the 2016 Olympics. “I wouldn’t blame people if they’d rather go to Rio than Chicago,” I conceded. “In Chicago you get handguns,” countered the lawyer at the next stool. “In Rio it’s machine guns.”


With only a few blocks left I strolled past an old-fashioned neon parking sign and the rusty-looking Time-Life building at McClurg Court, 400 E., with its shiny, copper-colored windows. It grew chilly as I walked through the cloud of mist which almost completely concealed the monolithic Lake Point Tower condo building.

After I passed under the eight-lanes of Lake Shore Drive, 600 E., and saw the pier entrance a couple blocks away, my cell phone rang. It was my high school classmate Chris O’Brien, now a D.C.-based “beer activist” and author of the book Fermenting Revolution: How to Drink Beer and Save the World. Chris’ book is a manifesto on the social and environmental impact of choosing craft-brewed beverages over Big Beer. He’s currently working on a similar book about coffee. You can read his beer blog at http://beeractivist.com.

Chris’ day job involves advising corporations, schools and other institutions about how they can buy “green.” He was in town for a conference on ecologically responsible procurement practices and he wanted to know if I wanted to meet up for a cold one. “Where are you?,” I asked. “Navy Pier,” he answered. In a moment we met up at the gate, beside the cool blue of Lake Michigan. We retreated a few blocks on Grand to meet up with his colleagues at D4, a nouveau-Irish bar at 345 E., where we toasted the coincidence with pints of stout.