Vinny to the rescue...

A public thanks to Vinny, fellow blogger, for pointing out that I inadvertantly duplicated several paragraphs during the formatting of the Starved Rock ride report. Stuff happens when you're sleep deprived and rushing off to work. I'm long-winded enough, no need to add even more to the blabber. THANKS, Blog Buddy!

Ride Report: Starved Rock (and a man who leans)

Sometimes the best made plans conk out. I deliberately did not take a long ride on a beautiful, weather-perfect Saturday because I had planned to do an overnighter Sunday/Monday. So, I spent Saturday fulfilling many of life’s demands—I even went to bed at a decent time. Yet, I was bright-eyed at 3am. I read, wrote a few things, read some more, made a fruit smoothie and when 8am rolled around I felt myself getting sleepy. Driving tired in a car is bad; operating two-wheels when tired is a death wish IMHO. Tried to get a few hours of sleep but never really reach REM. Thus, I couldn’t get myself together to leave until well after 11am, which to me is about 5 hours later than I like to leave.

Took out the trusty map, looked at all my yellow highlights around IL, and instantly decided to head southwest to Utica, IL, home of Starved Rock State Park. By this time, it was 11:30am. Although I was no longer tired, I was still poking around. Decided to mount the GPS to the bike. That took another 30 minutes. Decided to wear different pants. More time wasted. I packed two cameras, another set of clothes and my hiking boots. I was beginning to think I shouldn’t ride; I ignored my gut and blamed my looniness to a sudden onset of adult attention deficient disorder. I promised myself that if I rode the bike and didn’t immediately come to attention, I would call off the ride. Safety is always my first priority.

The one thing that gets me focused right away and melts away (momentarily--at least) life’s, stressors, pressures and distractions, is mounting my gal-pal. I don’t have a death wish so I know I absolutely must be centered on what I am doing. When I ride Queenie, my attention is zeroed in on the task of riding. I talk to myself during rides so that I’m in continual check with myself, what’s happening around me, how I’m feeling, and the feel of the bike. And, if things don’t feel right, I pack it in.

Getting through Chicago was my first ride challenge. As I eased Queenie southbound along Michigan Avenue, a throng of people and cars filled every inch of space. Way too many drivers were sightseeing and changing lanes randomly; Cabbies forever playing Pac-man ignored my presence; and bicyclists, they treated every vehicle or person as a cone weave opportunity. A mile of stop-and-go didn’t faze me. I felt great! But it was the turn in a curve with an immediate stop (if you’re not paying attention there you can fagittaboutit—you’re going to go down) that told me what I needed to know about this ride’s future. I straightened up the bike and put on brakes. I felt good.
Before leaving, I felt scattered, literally walking from room to room, fiddling with a Sekonic light meter, making journal entries, reading about Ilford film, which, 20 years ago was my film of choice. I ended up with the feeling that I wasn’t ready for my overnighter. I had wanted to do the Rustic Roads (RR) tour in WI. If I do ten of them, (yes, I know I am too goal oriented, but still…). I would get a motorcycle patch—yippee! I had planned to go to WI, ride some back roads, hike some trails, get a good night’s sleep, get up early on Monday and do the 147 miles of RR, and then head back to Chicago. My late start fouled up everything!

The late start meant no back roads to Starved Rock, unlike last year’s trip. I hopped on Lake Shore Drive for a short connection to I-94 west and on to I-55 South. The I-55 traffic was surprisingly light for the next 45 miles. I kept the speedometer within 10 miles of the post speed limits. I loved the spots where the posted speed was 65. I find Interstates potentially zone inducing if I don’t talk to myself, which I did the entire trip. I picked up I-80 near Minooka, IL and it became my track for another 45 miles or so.

I stopped in Minooka to stretch my legs. I’ve not experienced leg cramps the way I did on this trip. I tired moving my knees up, repositioning my foot, flexing it—nothing eased the cramp. This bothered me by forcing me to think of something other than the road. I hate stopping on such roads and feeling like a sitting duck. The cramp soon became a pain and I imagined a blood vessel erupting any minute. I saw myself falling off the bike and being run over repeatedly. Eventually, the leg cramp relaxed some but would happen again before I reached Utica. Hmmm? It also happened twice (once rather badly) on the return trip. "The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be," I guess.

I gassed up and as I stood outside drinking water, I met two men: a Harley Davidson rider and an elderly gent. The Harley rider, dressed in his go-to-meeting clothes, passes me on his way into the store. He says, “I have a motorcycle, a Harley Davidson, and on a nice day like today I should be out riding, instead I’m going to church with my grandson.” He stretches his arms, palms up and looks pleadingly into the sky. He looked perturbed. I told him he‘d probably get some extra points choosing church over riding. He said he hoped so. At the same GasMart, in the same spot, I meet an elderly gent around 5ft 4inches who exits the store and begins walking toward me. His face is hard to read. He wears a snarl. I size him up and feel that I can land some punches and kicks where they would hurt. It is a bright day so I’m thinking he wouldn’t really try anything, right? He comes too close to me and leans in my direction and with a drawl that ignites my “regional-bias,” he says, “You from ‘round here?” Now, by itself it’s an innocent question. He asks, however, in a way that reminds me Carroll O’Connor, the bigoted sheriff in the movie, The Heat of the Night, when he asks Sidney Poitier where he’s from. Then the man leans out again. My muscles tighten and I casually put my water down in case I need to drop it quickly to reach for his throat. I want to say, “Who wants to know.” Instead, I just say, “No…I’m from Chicago.” He leans in again. “Tell me…[leans out] how much [leans in] does the police let you get away with on that thing” [leans out ]. I tell myself not to allow the accent to throw me off. On his last lean out, I noticed a sly smile on his sun-damaged face. I tell him, I think they’ll let you do within ten. He smiles, leans in and turns to walk away, but not before adding: “That’s a nice little rig you got there.” Rig? Wow! I’ve never heard my bike (or any bike) referred to as a rig! I thank him for that.
The rest of the ride was rather monotonous but a few tacky road signs provided a little entertainment. Starved Rock State Park is situated in the town of Utica is a popular motorcycle destination. Literally hundreds of ear-splitting bikes. I passed by groups of riders and by what looked to be club hangouts, where bikes were parked deep and thick with their uniformed riders standing sentry. It all made me really think about the whole “loud bike save lives” perspective. Does it, really? Is there any research on this? As I rolled into the park, which has beautiful twisting roads and curves, the thundering I heard near and far from motorcycles only got on my nerves. Throughout my time at the park, every now and again, I would hear the booming and roaring from bikes. Those who don’t ride probably detest the sound. I ride and I hated it. So do loud pipes “save lives”—maybe so if all people want to do is flee from the racket. Frankly, I thought it all just annoying. All I wanted to do was disassociate myself from that noise. The weather was in the low 80s. I saw many women riders and I was surprised to see so few absent any gear—lots of bar arms, shoulders, midriff, and gloveless hands.

By the time I changed my clothes, donned my hiking boots, loaded up the old SLR, dug out the digital, I had dismissed the noisy bikes and thought only of the trek to the Rock. According to legend, Starved Rock’s name comes from the Illini’s decision to camp out on the top of a huge rock, away from the reach of the Iroquois, whom they were battling. Rather than leave the rock and surrender to their enemy, the Illini starved to death.

I must get some Draggin' Jeans for trips like this. It was a pain to trudge to the Visitors’ Center to change clothes, and then back to the bike to store the clothes, and then do it all over again before leaving. The park was abuzz with activity, which forced me to park in the farthest lot. Given this, it took more than 30 minutes to change in and out of my riding gear. With riding jeans, I can remove the armor and change shoes. Note to self: before the Lake Superior trip, fix this.

Carrying a loaded backpack and a helmet locked to the knapsack up steep climbs, exhausted me far sooner than it should have. I had missed a couple of weeks of power walking and I felt like a sumo wrestler. Dang, I hate when that happens! Some findings: The GPS and bike odometer show interesting discrepancies. At one point, the bike showed 50.4 miles, the GPS showed 51.6. At another time, the bike showed 94.2 miles versus the GPS, 97.2—that’s a significant disparity. Can somebody tell me why? Does it mean that the farther I go the great will be this gap? Alternatively, is there a point at which the mileage difference will converge and be more similar than dissimilar? Curious…

The return trip was super highway all the way, boring but fast.
Total Distance: 203.4 miles -- Sunday, April 29, 2007

SRTT Revisited

Rather than spend last weekend (my original plan) in WI, I spent Sunday riding around a massive lot for six hours. The weather could not have been better! Still, Sunday started out a bit shaky. I was a wee bit tired--but in a good way--after having spent much of Saturday riding to and from WI. By Sunday morning, something I had eaten Saturday in Harvard, IL, was making my stomach rebel. Still, I didn’t want to miss the hard work and fun that awaited me in Ride-Chicago's SRTT (Street Rider Technical Training) class, which I had taken last year. I rode the 13 miles to Maywood, trying to ignore the unpleasant rumbling in my gut.

When I arrived at the range, I was met by an assortment of colorful, serious-looking bikes. In my first SRTT class, the bikes appeared tamer, some nakeds, several cruisers and a couple of Goldwings. While sport bikes seemed to dominate this class, we had a diverse mix. Don Helle, teacher par excellence, is the instructor. In addition, teachers from Ride-Chicago were on hand to assist.

It doesn’t’ take long to know that Don is a master rider. He rides an aptly colored yellow and black Yammie FZ1, which makes me thing of a zip-zagging bumblebee. Don has garnered many awards for his riding and teaching and I’m sorry I can’t list them here (next time I’ll have to interview him at the end of the class). I do know that while in the military, Don was in charge of teaching motorcycle safety. I know his riding and teaching has transcended North America to include international ventures. He advocates superior skills, particularly Japanese style street riding techniques. Don is a demanding, clever instructor who knows that so much of effective teaching is relationship-building. Before you know it, you’re sucked into his circle; you’re convinced that mastering the skills and techniques he teaches are achievable and potentially life saving. Basic motorcycle safety skills, which you need to take this course, scratch the surface in the vast world of motorcycle riding. We know, that the more we practice, the more proficient we become. But at some point, many of us will want to deepen our knowledge and hone our skills with a track day, private lessons, experienced riders course or an advanced “super” course like SRTT. It is a demanding, doable step-up regardless of one’s current skill level.

Whole body riding is key to SRTT style. The class is about developing confidence-inspiring skills, being in absolute control of one’s machine; it’s about efficiency, maximizing stability, and becoming a highly skilled motorcyclist. As Ride-Chicago states, it’s about riding “with” the motorcycle and not “on” the motorcycle.

Many of us rely on upper body strength to maneuver our bikes. For the most part, this works. Before you finish SRTT class, however, you realize how much more efficient riding is that incorporates the whole body. Think of all that unused power in the lower body. It’s a different ride altogether when you’re cornering in full body synchronization. Thus, the class commences with stretching exercises to loosen up the joints and get mentally prepared for riding. A pre-class suggestion recommends taking an Advil before class. I was smart, this time around, I did. Don always bets that by 2pm the aches and discomfort will be palpable to some of us. Really, it’ll be the next two days before you stop walking as if you’re imitating John Wayne.

After riding the vast lot to warm up self and tires, our first lesson is braking. My explanation will probably not do justice to the technique, but here goes: When learning to ride, I was taught to ease off the throttle (engine braking), disengage the clutch, and apply both brakes simultaneously. SRTT teaches a solid, firm application of the brakes just before you hear/feel that unmistakable sound of the bike beginning to peter, at which point, you pull in the clutch and downshift to first gear. Don gave a convincing, technical explanation of why this method is superior to what most of us are traditionally taught. I can’t explain it better than I have. I know this: it feels better, more certain and definitive, more streamlined and far more efficient. That skill alone is worth the $105 tuition!

Get a good night's sleep before the course as the class requires almost continuous riding around a massive space that is marked off with cones and directional arrows that create a maze of real-road challenges. Thus, learning the route is the first challenge. I zoned out and lost my way a few times, which of course, throws off anyone trailing you. The class is devoid of long queues of bikes waiting for their time on the course. Sunday’s class had more than a dozen bikes buzzing about the range together the whole day. I never felt crunched for space or time. By the end of class, even with pulling out for 15 minutes to settle my churning stomach and to fret over a sore thumb, my odometer registered more than 45 miles.

Considerable time is devoted to proper cornering in tight spaces. After hearing Don’s sound instructions on entering, braking, and accelerating--all of which are executed at specific points--we spent significant time applying these skills. Some of the more talented riders (and there were a lot in this class) inhaled the technique and demonstrated it early and easily. I understood the theory and the technique, but I was stuck a bit in basic cornering technique, which works, but I needed to step-up. It took me many attempts to sorta put it all together. I didn’t mastered it with the precision, smoothness and gracefulness that seemed second nature to some of the others. These riders seemed to fly into the marked space, brake on a dime by applying both brakes, turn their head at exactly the right point, get off the front brake (while staying on the back brake) and accelerate to the next corner. The entire course had its share of cornering opportunities but these particular corners were set up back-to-back. It was challenging, yet fun. I ended the class feeling that I had greatly improved my cornering skills but still had a lot to learn. That’s the beauty of SRTT, no matter the level at which you begin the class, you end it feeling like a highly improved rider.

I can’t forget the straight-line cone weave. Not a problem, right? Well, the goal isn’t just about getting through. None of us had a problem with that. Yet, many of us managed the cones by working harder than necessary because we depended heavily on our ability to steer the bike around the cones, ignoring the power inherent in our lower body. This is where the whole-body riding shines. Don said if done properly, our knees would move up and down as we navigated around the cones. Sure enough, while watching one group, we could observe some of them bowling through with nary a move from the hip/knee region, and others who seemed to be marching as their bikes flicked flawlessly around the little orange domes.

Riding with both hands firmly on the handlebars is what motorcyclists do. Imagine riding the entire course with one hand. Last year, I remembered liking this a lot. But I had forgotten how exacting it was. One hand riding makes you acutely aware of how often we compensate for flaws in our skills by using both hands. One hand riding demands that you think ahead and prepare yourself for what’s coming up next; it forces you to be precise and on point with your head turns; it requires you to exercise smooth throttle control; it makes you deliberate in using whole-body riding. Without the use of both hands, you automatically call upon all your resources to help you ride; thus, your lower regions are activated to assist. One hand riding around a challenging course is also mental and you’ll be amazed at just how good a rider it renders you and how aware you’ll become of the need to put your whole self into riding.

The class doesn’t end before Don takes everyone on a ride on his Yammie. Even though it may feel like it, the goal is not to make you pray for divine intervention. The objective is to help the passenger feel how to ride the course by riding with a master. Anyone who has ridden two-up with Don knows that it is an understatement to call it "an amazing experience." Having had the ride the previous year, I knew what was in store for the unsuspecting participants and I did my part to encourage them to take the ride. I did not ride with Don. Not because I didn’t want my turn but because my stomach warned me not to. I imagined going down in Ride-Chicago history as the woman who upchucked on Don during SRTT—I would never live that down.

It’s not just a ride. It’s an experience. You come away with a tangible sense of how it feels to execute a flawless corner, how it feels to control speed, how it feels to stop on a dime, how it feels to make your bike seem as if it is being held upright by an invisible string, you feel what real leaning is and how proper throttle use maintains stability. It’s hard to convey, but I know this: after you ride with Don and return to riding the course, you'll see that your riding has changed and greatly improved because you’ve felt what it feels like to do it right and in seeking that same feeling in your own riding, you ride so much better than before.

The class ends with Don introducing us to riding with no hands (beyond straight line riding) and teaching us four rather showy but important skills, one of which is said to help enhance your love life (well, sorta). Of these, I love the bump and roll and the Chicago stop/California stop (I heard it said both ways). All in all a magnificent day and one that I’ll repeat each year to mark the beginning of a new riding season.

The Windy City

When I was young, my father would walk in the door after being out in Chicago's cold, windy weather and declare: "The hawk is out there today!" He had another raptor reference that equally puzzled me and had no connection to the first: "The eagle flies on Friday..," which I learned is borrowed from an old blues tune and means "it's payday." My childhood is dotted with memories of blustery walks to school and feeling as though I'd be lifted by the wind and blown away like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

Yet, the literal reference to the hawk puzzled me until I did some research (another of my father's saying whenever you asked him a question was "look it up--that's what they have libraries for!"). So I looked up hawks. We know that they swoop on their prey, they soar and shoot through the sky and swoop down again. Yesterday, I went for a leisurely ride of about 75 miles. Winds gusts were out of the southeast 44 mil

Sharon, meet Sharon!

My first "trip" of the season and the weather could not have been more perfect. High 70s and enough intermittent wind gusts to keep me on my toes, especially out in the open farmlands, where the gusts felt strongest. My plans for a weekend romp to WI had to be scraped because an advanced skills class was rescheduled for today. A day trip to Sharon, WI and a short trek farther north to Williams Bay was just what I needed to excavate the cobwebs. West of Sharon was a museum, Bartlett Memorial Historical Museum that I didn’t go to because of time. I wanted to reach Williams Bay before the Yerkes Observatory tours closed. I didn’t.

I superslabbed about 28 miles of the trip. Did people just not get the news that using a cell phone while driving is illegal? Last I checked you could purchase an earpiece, which isn’t that safe either or a hands free contraption, fairly cheaply. I saw many folks driving with one hand and a phone cradled between their cocked head and neck. Twice, two cars changed lanes in front of me. Specifically, they ventured into my lane without signaling or looking. This is why a space cushion is critical. Staying out of someone’s blind spot assumes that the driver will be checking that on occasion. These two didn’t bother. One of them, changed lanes in a 45 mph zone at about 10 mph. I tooted my horn at him and he made an angry face and mouthed something that I’m certain wasn’t “I’m sorry for being inattentive and rude. Have a nice day” The woman, didn’t bother to look.


On my first leg, I was supposed to take I-290 west to IL-53. Seems easy enough, right? Wrong. I missed the cutoff for IL-53 and had to take another route. I managed to find IL-173. (This is when the automatic rerouting of a GPS tops a map). I made a few other mistakes too and for every error, I was forced to stop to recollect myself. Even when I think I know a route, road constructions or poor signage on detours can derail me. This time, however, it was my fault. When I found IL-173, I headed for some county back roads. Around Hebron, IL, these roads were in horrendous shape. Huge craters lined the road forcing me to practice the cone weaving skilled learned in safety class. Other than that, I enjoyed numerous sweeping, curvy roads with plenty of rolling “hills.” I had so much fun, I got lost again. Some people have an instinct for direction, I’m not one of them. A curvey road will get me turned around if I’m not paying attention. Eventually, I'll need to stop just to get my bearings. I ended up at some point going in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. Oh well…it’s about the ride, right?

Finally reached Sharon.
She’s quaint, cute and small. Not much ethnic diversity here, which may explain why I met up with officer friendly so quickly. I seem to have that effect on some towns, which is another story I'll not go into. I pulled into a local school lot to snap a photo and to consult the map on the best way to Williams Bay. Within minutes, a police car pulled in, parked and watched. I studied the map for about five minutes. He waited. He watched. Finally, when I had taken the pics I wanted and oriented myself, I fired up my gal pal. Then I had an idea. Go talk to the officer. I mosied on over and asked for direction. He was nice and actually gave me a better route than I had selected. Glad I spent some time in Sharon, population less than 1600. By the way, Sharon happens to be “Home of the best Swedish Pancakes in WI”—according to one sign.
Williams Bay is home of the Yerkes Observatory of the University of Chicago. It is also the home of George Williams College of Aurora University. The entire area was beautiful, lush and green. Even the distant smell of healthy and abundant livestock didn’t bother me--much.

My return route was simple but laborious. I took IL-67 south to US-14 East much of the way. It’s a long journey that way but one travels through many little towns (and I do like small towns in spite of my experiences in some of them) such as Big Foot (there’s a high school named in its honor), Harvard (where I stopped for a salad), Woodstock, and Crystal Lake and far too many suburbs to mention. We had a little mishap when I thought the kickstand was down but it wasn’t. A kind gentleman with an admiring wife looking on, helped me upright the bike. I thanked him no less than twelve times! I don’t know how I didn’t hurt any flesh or metal.

I started my trip at 9:15 a.m. (very late for me) and returned home safely by 7:45 p.m. The more miles we added, the better Queenie performed. We covered 240.3 miles--not bad for a day trip.

Interesting "trips" with Blogger Buddies...

Over the weekend, I visited a fellow motorcycle blogger's site and had an unexpected treat. DBrent Miller's Sojourn Chronicles is a neat place to tool around any day. He offers lots of entertaining motorcycle fare. On my last visit, I not only read an excellent review of Carla King's American Borders (I swear, I'm going to post my own review soon--I only finished it in February!!). Beyond the review, Miller presents the real thing. He has a podcast interview with "the" Carla King and it's a wonderful way to hear the two talk travel, motorcycles and the challenges of both. How cool is that?! Listen to it--it's fun! You'd miss a lot, however, if you restrict your visit to two wheeling. Miller's site is multi-layered, proffering great views on small towns, photography--wonderful photography, even stories about people and places as far away as Malawi. And of course, Miller's excellent writing keeps things interesting. I'm not just saying this because he's a fellow moto blogger and he visits me on occasion. I'm saying this because Miller has created a great place to hang out. Period.

Crusty The Biker is one of those friends from whom you'll always get the straight, honest answer whether you want it or not. As my late father would say, "He doesn't bite his tongue--he'll tell you like it is, like it was, and like it's gonna be." Read Crusty's advice on motorcycle maintenance and you'll know you're in the hands of a master. I trust his expertise and therefore his advice. Like DBrent Miller, Crusty is a map lover. Do all motorcyclists love pouring over atlases and maps? I sure do. I received one of my favorite freebies from reading a blog entry on travel and maps that Crusty did some time ago. He has tons of interesting favorites on his site that you should not miss. Crusty would be the first to say, he's not a gadget man. He uses technology because he has to and because he knows, on some level, it's supposed to make his work easier but he'll tell you about those times when technology has made his work far more arduous than it needs to be. In any case, his is another place I like to visit. Check him out and get smarter about taking care of your bike too.

Carla King is omnipresent. Not only has she been in the forefront of motorcycle blogging, she's been on two wheels a long time. She too knows a lot about bikes and is an intrepid solo traveler. While Carla may have met some roads she didn't like, I don't think she's met a motorcycle she hasn't been willing to test in some challenging, interesting way. Her enthusiasm for taking on roads in faraway places is contagious. She's a good role model--a young Ardys Kellerman! I read American Borders with an atlas at my side and with her keen descriptions and ethnographic eye, Carla kept me on the edge of my seat. No one can tell me I wasn't her riding companion on that trip! Now, in addition to her regular hang outs, Motorcycle Misadventures and American Borders, you can visit Carla at OpenRoad.TV -- sort of an odd name, but it works. Read about these folks and you'll be impressed. Carla is the moderator/host of the motorcycle forum, where you can share, learn and find out all you want to know about two-wheeling in the American West. After reading Carla's book and Neil Peart's, Ghost Rider: Travels Along the Healing Road, I've felt the urgent call to "Go West young [woman]!"

"I get by with a little help from my friends." Thanks.

^^^

The weather here promises to be at least 70F and above by the weekend. I smell a trip coming up! See you on the road.

Interesting Tank bags

I have a nice Nelson-Rigg magnetic tank bag that I adore. It's a workhorse. It's square and compact but expanding it makes it tall and deep--and the blue band along the front and end almost match my bike's blue. The description that comes with it says the magnets that are safely enclosed in thick material won't scratch the paint. Still, I'm careful with taking it on and off the bike. Its expansion feature has come in handy during impromptu stops at the grocery store. I've jammed in frozen vegetables, fresh fruit, bottle water, trail mix and still had room for the tire pressure gauge, mini-Maglite, mobile phone, Moleskine note pad, and a few other odds and ends. Here's the "but..." I've wanted a bag that doesn't require removal when fueling up. That might sound trivial but it can become annoying--and if I'm going to get into distance riding, removing the bag every time I gas up, can be a time robber. So, I've been on a quest for a more distance-friendly bag. Here's what I've found.

Panniers--a unique style:


I'm very impressed with Whitehorse Gear's Afrika Tank Panniers. They hang over the tank, leaving the gas cap exposed for easy access. The panniers are stylish and the bags appear ample enough to carry one's loot. Adjustable bungee cords allow the sides to be adhered to the bike's under belly. Two adjustable Velcro straps drape over the tank, which I assume means they might work on my SV. One only would need to keep the two pouches well-balanced when packing. This set-up sounds ideal. Not bad for $79.95



Big Mak AirBag Stealth SS, H3 Map Case

This is a clever system! The folks at BMA, who offer "unique" accessories for the BMW have come up with the answer to my tank bag woes. The Big Mak AirBag Stealth SS is one bag with an interesting optional companion bag. Before the bag is functional, a rack is bolted to the fuel filler cap. The bottom of the bag is then placed on this hinged mount, allowing one to flip up the tank bag when gas is needed. Imagine the amount of time saved in an Iron Butt, where time matters. The added bonus of this system is that one can attach to the Stealth, a separate and smaller bag, the H3 Map Case. This flatter, square bag is perfect for holding a map in its large clear pocket. This extra bag doesn't have a lot of depth (2.5 inches) but the top bag, The Stealth, is the real tank bag. With the two bags, a good height is created, which can help block the wind and serve as a tower to lean on if necessary. Take a look at BMA's system. The Stealth costs $179.90 and the H3 Map Case, $89.95 I'm open to other ideas.

Decisions, decisions.

Mysteries of nature and body...

Mother Nature has whacked the Windy City upside the head! I know it’s all relative and far worse in some areas. Still, Chicago is where I am. Allow me a myopic rant. As I write this, it’s in the low 20s with a high that will remain below freezing. The meteorologist then twisted her knife by adding, “When you step out the door, the wind-chill will feel like you’re in the single digits...” I knew I shouldn’t have delayed the purchase of that heated vest! Of course, the second I purchase it now, the weather will warm. So, I’ve been riding cold. Doing so more often than not ignites (no pun intended) urticaria demons. Cold weather is one of the triggers I’ve been able to isolate.

On my last outing, within 20 minutes, I couldn’t ignore the sensation of my face warming and expanding inside my helmet. This heating up spreads to my legs and then my thighs. It is a strange, miserable feeling that reminds me of those bizarre stories I’ve read about people who spontaneously combust and I can’t help thinking this is how it all begins. This heating (and subsequent appearance of hives) happens when I’m out walking in the cold too. On my gal-pal, it happens faster and is more aggressive. It has become my signal to turn Queenie around and return home for it is too distracting to dare continue. When I remove my gear, I’m a mess of reddish, itchy, splotchy, swollen welts. Doctors? I know they mean well, but they don’t seem interested in the “why” of this. They’ve push; I mean, “prescribed” their powerful potions and declared the hives “idiopathic”—a fancy way of saying, “we don’t know why.”

I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. With the drugs, the hives are mostly kept at bay but I’m not fit to operate a motorcycle safely. Without the drugs, I’m Quasimodo for the next hour! Lately, I’ve not been taking the one drug that makes me loopy, stare off into space until my head wants to crash down to my desk, and fall into a deep sleep. The trade off? I take the lesser evil drug, which only does an adequate job and leaves me vulnerable to unpredictable outbreaks. At least, my head doesn’t feel like my brain responds only in slow motion.

The weather will improve. For now, I will ride until the elevation in my body heat warns me to stop; and, I will try to embrace my Quasidomo-ness when it rears its disfigured head. I will ride, however brief, to keep that physical, muscle memory sharp and fit for the smell of spring, sniff-sniff, scratch-scratch, really is in the air.

Role models all!

I am ecstatic to report (rather belatedly, I know) that one of my heroines, Ardys Kellerman, a woman I’ve written about before and the person I nominated for the Motorcycle Bloggers International Hall of Fame, won in two categories: for “best contribution to motorcycling” and for “women’s riders booster of the year.” She earned those honors and deserves so much more. She’s a 74 year young, adventurous, and intrepid motorcycle “superhero.” What I admire most about her is an unwavering tenacity that puts most of our efforts to shame.

Then there’s Linda Bootherstone-Bick, WIMA (Women’s International Motorcycle Association) introduced me to this amazing woman, artist, songwriter and free-spirit. I had not heard of Linda before this but I’ve now followed her magnificent travelogue. In 2005, Linda, a seasoned motorcyclist, turned her long-held dream into reality when she embarked on a solo trip from Gibraltar to Australia. While on her challenging trek, Linda celebrated her 61st birthday. Her trip, which took 21 months to complete, is an inspiring narrative about old and new friends, personal fortitude, and survival. View Linda's warm and inviting pictures; follow her trials and tribulations atop a Suzuki DR650. Fall in love with Linda's spirit.

And then there’s my all-time heroine, Bessie Stringfield, a black woman who served as a military dispatch motorcycle rider during WWII, motoring around the USA eight consecutive times, outperforming other dispatch riders with her successful completions. Bessie rode at a time when race relations made it difficult at best for a black person to travel freely through the South. Fearless Bessie rode with abandon. Imagine the tales of Bessie Stringfield, a lone black woman on a motorcycle, often forced to sleep on her bike because she was refused hotel accommodations—I’m talking about a time long before Civil Rights was on anyone’s radar. There are moments when I believe she summons me from her grave, whispering, “Tell my story,” which I am planing to do.

These are not just role models for woman; they are role models for anyone breathing. These courageous individuals rode day after day—solo—expecting the best from life but forever prepared to deal with the worst. This summer, when I’m out there alone, navigating around Lake Superior, enjoying the scenic, often desolate roads that proudly profess nature’s miracles, these are the brave, strong, independent souls I shall dwell on and feel a connection. Collectively, they goad and motivate me to persevere, to get out there and live my dreams, and to ignore naysayers and one’s own internal critics. I’ve always marched to a different drummer. Now I ride to one too.

My camping cargo!

Well, I’m set for my solo camping adventure.


Not knowing if solo camping is a permanent part of my motorcycle touring, I’ve kept my expenses low. The equipment I sought had to fit three criteria: decent, inexpensive and small. First the tent: I found one for $90 that was on clearance for $34. Can’t beat that! I grabbed it. The tent was made in China. I mention that in an effort to (perhaps) explain why the abysmal directions for erecting the tent. In two short, confusing paragraphs, I learned nothing! I’m one of those people who reads manuals, highlights directions and really follows instructions. But this tent came devoid of any coherent instructions. I studied the photo of the assembled tent and put it together based on the picture. It took me two tries to get it right. Once erected, I was happy I had decided to get a 2-person tent rather than a one person. This is a small dome tent that has just enough room for me and my loot—not an inch more. Its igloo design has a wide front entrance, privacy flaps and nice mesh cover. I like it; it will definitely serve me well. On a five star scale, with five being superior, I give the tent a 3.5; the instructions get a minus one!

Sleeping Bag

I selected the mummy style as I recall being bug-snug in one before. I am amazed that tents and bags run the price gamut! I found sleeping bags for $10.00 to well over $700.
After much research, I realized I could easily eliminate the high priced all-season, goose down-filled bags, guaranteed to keep me warm in below zero temps. I will not be scaling any icy mountains in the dead of winter. I opted for a hugely discounted bag for a whopping $35, which was a more than 50% discount. In print, it sounded good. In reality, it looks pretty darn good too. On the few nights I plan to use it, it will suffice. The bag earns a 3.5.

Sleeping bag pad

I found many sleeping bag pads, those items you place between your sleeping bag and the floor of your tent. Doing so will prevent you from feeling the cold and damp ground on which your tent is placed. To me the most important thing about these pads should be their ability to retain body heat, resist moisture, and ideally, add a little softness to the ground. Am I missing something? By now, I've learned that one can spend any amount on gear. I wanted cheap but good quality and I now know that it is possible if one is willing to hunt for bargains, which can be taxing. I found pads ranging in $10 to well over $200! A huge range in style and function exists. I found one $25 that was discounted to $12. When I opened the package and revealed a thick spongy pad--sort of like the memory foam mattresses--I wondered how well it would work. Well, it is surely better than nothing—I hope. For now, this gets a 3.

Headlight

This is too cool!
The lamp is large and operates from a twist wheel adjacent to the lamp. It is lightweight with an adjustable strap. The light is bright enough to illuminate the way if I have to answer a nature call in the middle of the night. It also doubles as a nice reading lamp. The only thing I don’t like about it is the military fatigue strap, but hey, I only pad $15 for it and I think it’s one of my favorite purchases. (Sidebar: while waiting at the airport to pick up my daughter who was home for spring break, I had a chance to use this as a reading light. It drained new batteries in thirty minutes!) Note to self: take extras. I rate this 4 out of 5.

Binoculars

Another potentially pricey item. Initially, confused with the mm numbers and zoom and power figures, I did some research to find out which features were necessary for my needs. One can’t go strictly by price as the same features can be found at all price levels. If desired, I could spend thousands of dollars on binoculars! Price varies also by function, glass quality and brand name. There is no need to buy binoculars designed for astronomy if all I want to do is birding. Do I need a zoom function? Lightweight, compact or something more robust? Sometimes I wish I were the kind of person who could see something, make a decision and get on with my life. This was not an easy purchase. Since I didn’t want to spend a ton, but didn’t want to buy junk, I found a pair of Bushnell (a name inextricably linked with binoculars) that retailed for $110. I bought them for $55. Good deal, eh?
They are compact, lightweight and have a medium zoom function. They fit my small hands well and I’ve already spied on an apartment building across the river. I was also able to read the fine print on a street sign far into the distance. I’m very pleased with this purchase. This gets a whooping 5 out of 5.

If camping becomes a permanent feature in my motorcycle touring, I will eventually upgrade the equipment. Until then, it’s good to know that I’m set for the season.

By the way, my friend Lucas, a serious outdoorsman, has ribbed me about my lack of desire to camp and cook my meals. To him camping and cooking go hand-in-hand. I believe him. I did it many years ago. Now, I've redefined things. Any activity that reminds me of domesticity will not be allowed on my trips! Camping is roughing it enough. I'd rather fast than cook on a vacation! So, don't expect any reviews of cooking gear--and don't try to convince me of its virtues, thank you very much.

A note on my camping experiences...

As a solo female rider, I am leery of camping alone. Gender is an issue. Allow me be honest, race is a factor too. As much as I’d like to pretend that race doesn’t matter, it does. I am not naive; I know I don’t have blendability, that quality that allows me to cross boundaries with nary a notice. To some extent, we all have limits on our ability to blend. Truth be told, some of us have more difficulty blending than others. Long before riding a motorcycle, I was made aware of how my presence in some places could generate certain crazy dynamics, which has taught me that being female is challenging enough, but being a visibly distinct “minority” and female raises the stakes a bunch of notches! I’m talking firsthand experience here. Please don’t tell me, as someone did, that we get or find what we’re looking for on this earth and that I only need to practice positive thinking to reap positive outcomes. Look, I’ve been drawing breath on this earth a long time; I know the limits on positive thinking. I have been spit on, yelled at from moving cars, ignored by wait staff in restaurants, and fended off enough unwanted male attention to know that along with positive thinking I need to be realistic and committed to self-preservation.

Years ago, I did a lot of camping so I’m not a complete novice. Then, I weathered the stares, the whispers, the nasty epithets that sometimes came my way. I chucked it up to ignorance. As long as I didn't feel physically threatened, I dealt with others' stupidity. I wasn't, back then, camping alone. My upcoming camping venture will be solo. I’m planning to camp at least twice--maybe more--while circling Lake Superior. I'm a huge fan of creature comforts but I also want to experience, up close and personal, some beautiful sunrises and sunsets; I'll need a great spot to do so along the lake’s magnificent shoreline. I refuse to allow my or anyone's limitations preclude me from having a great time.

First on the list: new gear. My allergies can exhibit monstrous results with one whiff of old, dank and dusty equipment. Thus, I’m not even thinking about using anything from the old stash. I bought a new tent and sleeping bag and pad. Then of course, there are the accessories, like head light and binoculars. Second on the list: items that serve a useful purpose but double also as a weapon. Given that I’ll be traveling through Canada, I will need to avoid carrying anything that might be a red flag during customs inspections. My motto: expect the best but prepare for the worst. Here’s what I took on the Lake Michigan Circle Tour (LMCT). Does anyone know…will I need to leave the knife at home? What about a hammer? I think I’d feel more comfortable sleeping with a hammer nearby. I’m open to suggestions for dual-purpose items—if you know what I mean.

Next: Gear talk

Sidi Boot Update

For those wanting more info on the Sidi On Road Gor-Tex boot, check out the 31 reviews on Motorcycle Gear Review. Overall, the reviews are quite impressive and provide lots of firsthand experiences testing the waterproofness of the boots. Then there is the review Cruiser Magazine did on the top 12 waterproof boots--it's worth reading too. The boots examined in the article refer to a Sidi On Road Sympatex boot, which is an older version of the Sidi On Road Gor-Tex. The only difference I see between the two is a $30 price increase on the "Gor-Tex" version and the name switch. The review is thorough and well-done.

Sidi On Road Gor-Tex Boots

Now that I have over 130 miles on my new, waterproof Sidi boots ($260), I think it’s time for a serious review. I love these boots! They fit perfectly! From the moment I slipped my foot inside, they felt comfortable—no stress points to annoy you after a few miles. On the second day, I wore the boots to work to begin the break-in process. Only thing is, these boots need no break-in. I walked several miles in them that day and at all times, I felt as if I were wearing my favorite cross-trainers.

These stylish, tall boots extend above mid-leg. A wide, rigid panel that runs along the front of the boot is enough to make the rider feel that the leg is well protected. This would prevent the “ouch” I utter when backing up the bike and smacking my shin on the foot pegs. The boots fasten by four belt-like straps that are pulled through a plastic eye and adhered to four Velcro positions on the side of the boots. Consequently, the boots allow for considerable adjustment through a simple buckle mechanism.

The Sidi On-Road boots have extra padding on the inside ankle (the outer ankle is protected underneath one of the fasteners). When the boots are unfastened they reveal a loose waterproof inner panel that when tucked in provides extra waterproofing along the buckles that are used to fasten and adjust the fit of the boot.
I also like that each boot sports the extra layer of leather near the toe where ordinarily only one exists on the shift boot.

In my relatively short riding experience, I’ve had four pairs of boots. A pair of tall, leather, smokin’ Frye boots from the 70s. These stylish and sweaty boots took months to break in and feel totally comfortable in. From last season, a pair of HD leather boots with hard toe, sole and heel. I like them but they offer minimal ankle and shin protection and didn’t have the bend around the sole area needed for good foot position on a sporty bike. The other pair, an inexpensive touring boot, was fine but the online purchase without benefit of trying them on rendered them ill-fitting, forcing me wear thick, hot socks to take up the slack; still, them always felt too loose and unsafe. Yet, I bought the Sidi’s online too but they perfect like gloves, which I think proves that the Sidi sizing is truer than the cheap pair.

I love 99.5% of everything about the Sidi boot. However, there is one little thing that I hope is correcting itself. The sole of the Sidi boot has a textured, knobby appearance. My foot is flexed on the pegs, that is, I am on the balls of my feet. When it is time to shift, the knobby surface is caught by the pegs, which are also textured. Without a smooth, flat sole, foot movement is an issue. I can’t just slide my foot forward and underneath and shift gears. I consciously have to lift my foot slightly—as oppose to simply scooch it forward—and then aim it underneath to shift the gear. When I first wore the boots, this inability to move my foot easily was hugely annoying. My former boots all had a flat, less deeply textured, surface that made foot movement smooth and automatic. I must say that either now I’ve learned to compensate for this or the surface is dulling some to allow easier foot gliding. In any case, it’s not enough to diminish the beauty and functionality of this boot. Although pricey, they are among the best investments I’ve made!

Nightmares

Does this happen to other riders or am I the only one? I’ve had my first one of the season. I don’t recall hearing it discussed on the forums either. But it seems that my riding season begins with me having a spat of nightmares. Horrible, ghastly tales of being struck by a Mack truck that sends me soaring through the air hitting metal traffic poles as I go down at which point I land in the street where cars run over me or my motorcycle falls from the sky on top of me. Sheer panic awakens me and I’m usually sweaty, confused wondering if I’ve just witnessed my future finis. I swear I have no death wish.

I remember having a particularly gruesome mind trip last year where I saw the accident about to happen and on some subterranean level I screamed at myself to wake up and I did just before impact. It worried me for days and sent me off journaling about the messages embedded in the dream. I’m not afraid to ride and I don’t harbor fears beyond the normal. The only thing I’ve come up with is that the nightmares are my brain’s way of dealing with the real dangers out there; they are close-ups of the extreme risks I can face; and, they serve as reminders to be forever vigilant and sharp. I think it’s my unconscious dealing with the injuries and fatalities that all riders read about, talk about, and some of us feel will/will not happen to us.
I’m don’t believe in the commonly expressed adage that there are only two types of riders, those who have crashed and those who will. Frankly, I don’t know why any rider would buy into such a negative expectation for him or herself. Those who do, I believe will surely live up to it. These figments of my imagination are dramatic reality checks—extremes to be sure, but valuable admonitions nonetheless. My night visions remind me of the popular—and old—television “cop” series, Hill Street Blues, where the police chief, after relaying a list of grisly neighborhood crime stats to his officers, would warn them as my seasonal dreams tell me, “Let’s be careful out there.”

St. Patrick's Day--Saturday

As in many urban centers, it’s a huge celebration. Chicago has a large Irish population and Irish is the heritage of its two longest serving mayors (father and son Daley). Thus, “St. Paddy’s Day” is serious business here with celebrations starting days before dye turns the Chicago River green. Weather is never a deterrent. Saturday was cold, clear and bright. People ambled along Michigan Avenue toward the parade route and by 10 a.m. many showed signs of the previous night’s celebration as they shouted with abandon. As I made my way on foot, I thought it better to skip riding today.

By 9:30 p.m., I couldn’t ignore the bike’s call. So, I planned a short ride, rationalizing that on such a cold night Queenie needed a firing up anyway. Queenie didn’t want to turnover the first time but she leaped alive on the second try. I dressed warmly but could feel the bite; I welcomed it. Night riding in downtown Chicago reveals a city always lit up. The “Magnificent Mile” always reminds one of Christmas with its brilliant nightly glow. As during Christmas, the streets were jammed with revelers except that on this day, most people donned anywhere from mild (tall green leprechaun hats and requisite green beads) to extreme dress (entire leprechaun outfits, clover-covered clothes, and kelly-green body paint) to convey their Celtic roots and support for the Emerald Isle.

Cars and cabs were ubiquitous! Lines to get into bars wrapped around corners, revelers literally poured into the streets. Lots of blowing horns and hoopla, sort of a mini Mardi Gras scene. The most eventful incident happened when a group of five young women, clearly inebriated, some of whom appeared to have difficulty keeping their pants above that spot where the “good Lord split ‘em,” were zipping in and out of the street. It looked like they were trying to hail a cab but had some commitment issues. I whispered an unkind word or two about “suburbanites” and immediately asked for forgiveness. After all, they could be Chicago’s finest!

In the cabbies’ desire to meet the needs of both sides of the street, it made one particular one-way street impossible to navigate in a straight line. Therefore, I remained stuck behind lurching cabs until the street calmed.

All but one of the seemingly drunken females managed to get inside a cab that stopped directly in front of them. One staggering and wildly giggling member spotted me. I think she assumed I was male (gear contributes to rider-anonymity). She ignored her friends as they piled into the cab. She sauntered back to me and coquettishly asked, “So where are you going?” She stood way too close to me and looked over the bike as if trying to figure out how to throw a leg over--getting around the hard cases will give one pause as it seems like an insurmountable task. I flipped open my helmet and said, “I’m going home.” With that, she mumbled something incoherent and staggered back to the cab where she planted herself next to the driver.

Fortunately, I arrived home safely. Perhaps last night was not the best time to venture out. Lesson learned: don’t allow my motorcyclia mania to put me in unnecessary danger. Riding under the best of circumstances is risk management enough.

"What a difference a day makes--24 little hours..."

Tuesday was magnificent! It reached a high of 73 degrees F, with bright, sunny skies and enough wind to make you sit up and take notice. I had an appointment in a far south suburb and because of the summer-like weather everyone and their mother was out and about, many cradling mobile phones in their cocked necks. Cabbies were playing serious Pac Man with anyone who came near. Yet, I was determined to take advantage of the weather and safely travel back and forth. It took me twice the time to get out of the downtown area. Some motorcyclists detest heavy traffic but if it’s your backyard, there is no avoiding it. You learn to navigate your environment, you become hyper-vigilant; you use laser eyes to scan your surroundings; you keep as much of a space cushion as you can (often a futile effort); and, you ride with you thumb on the horn. I did avoid the Dan Ryan (I-90/94), which is under construction and chaotic and as a result, replete with hordes of angry, edgy, and resentful drivers.

I took the long-cut and rode south on Western Avenue, which is now packed with cars and trucks trying to avoid "the Ryan" too. I took Western south to 119th Street then headed east to pick up Interstate 57. Hopped on that and took it south to Lincoln Hwy (Rt. 30 West). Nice slab ride, few cars, something that would shift in a mere two hours. The ride was windy—still loving the windscreen. Occasionally, unexpected wind blasts hit me—“hooray” for countersteering. A wind blast in a curve still makes the hair on my neck stand at attention. Although it sounds counter intuitive, “relaxing” is key to dealing with strong winds. Tightening up the muscles and fighting against oneself is not the way to proceed.

Arrived safely. My new doctor liked my bike. (Mental note: Give her two points for liking Queenie!) She said she treats many motorcyclists. Initially, I was impressed by that, later I had to ask myself if treating a lot of ‘cycists was a good thing or not…hmmm?

Return trip was uneventful except for the driver in a small maroon car, which pulled up next to me at a stop light and asked me about the bike. Ordinarily, I ignore people when I’m on the bike but I’ve learned that some drivers get very angry when I do. There are nuts out there, so I took the road of least resistance, the weather was warm, my helmet was crack a little and he asked about my bike—I’m a sucker for that and I always think someone is genuinely interested in my gal-pal. I gave him her name, rank and serial number, so to speak.

At the next light, he started in and I never see these things coming—I’m too old and too uninterested. He started flirting. He asked, “Where do you ride?” I said, “I ride…on the street…everywhere.” This wasn’t sufficient. He said, “No, like where exactly do you ride—do you ride around here?” Again, me: “I ride everywhere.” Then the silliest comment: “So do you think you can beat this?” He waves his hands as if introducing his car. I looked at his car and thought; he has to be kidding! I could out run that thing on foot! He was riding a Focus or something like it. Now, I’m not one to race cars or shoot off from a stoplight but this guy was beginning to annoy me. I thought, don’t let this fool make you kill yourself. It so happened that a bus was on his right and I knew that he’d have trouble getting around it. When the light changed, I watched for cross traffic trying to beat the light and when there wasn’t any, I proceeded slightly faster than I ever do. He was partly stuck behind the bus. And that was the end of that. Note to self: NEVER talk to drivers again. Just act as if you don’t hear them, risk the wrath of the crazies.

By the time I arrived home, I had performed the following: approximately 6-horn toots, a dozen or more negative head shakes at egregiously bad drivers; one swear word inside my helmet, and a really nice u-turn. Lessons: Scan constantly; maintain a space cushion (even when drivers repeatedly squeeze in); keep thumb on horn and use it; stay out of blind spots (if you can’t see the driver’s face in their side mirror—you’re in their blind spot); steer clear of buses and trucks (never ride behind them as left turners can’t see you; and, headlight modulators ROCK! Several left-turners saw me and stopped before pulling out. Final lesson, in an intersection be forever prepared for an emergency stop. Cover the brake and slow down!

Seventy-five total miles of riding in “alert” mode. Motorcycling demands extreme focus, which is one of the things I love most about it. The other is getting out in the hinterlands, riding along rolling hills and twisty roads with few cars on the road, while nature’s many smells and sites tickle the senses. You’re on automatic pilot. Only the laws of gravity keeps you on the ground.

By Wednesday, I found myself humming--badly I might add--Dinah Washington’s seminal version of “What a difference a day makes—24 little hours…” Wednesday’s temps dropped more than 30 degrees. Right now, it is 36F with a high expected of 42F—not perfect by any means…but this too shall pass.

Interesting picture gallery of Dan Ryan's crazy construction

1st (mini) Trip Report--Spring is in the air!

Now that my gal-pal is home—and the weather has warmed, riding occupies my thoughts. The hard-shell luggage, an excellent investment, doesn’t add any noticeable drag on the bike. The most striking new thing is the new windscreen! My old windscreen did a decent job with wind but I was sailing along at 60 mph (riding high on LSD, where the posted speed limit is far less but no one can do that safely) without a worry. LSD, by the way, is Lake Shore Drive. I barely noticed the head wind as the little screen cut through amazingly well.

Early Sunday morning was cold, high 30s but the day kept its promise and warmed to 59F, enough for me to gear up and take to the road. I had no destination in mind. I just wanted to ride but I was also reminded of Saturday, just one day prior, I felt like I needed to re-acquaint myself with my bike. That Saturday ride home from the dealer felt forced. The shifting seemed stiff, or perhaps I was just tentative and overly conscious of my every move. That old familiar, automatic feeling on the bike seemed to be in hibernation still. I thought it best not to venture too far but I ached to test my skills. And LSD was calling out to me.

I decided to visit my Alma Mater—University of Chicago—in Hyde Park. Since I matriculated, the campus has added new buildings. I see it whenever I drive through the area but I wanted to see the place from the seat of my motorcycle. The university campus is old, with gargoyles hanging off buildings, lush ivy snaking its way up and around gray stone walls and framing heavy dark wooden doors that boost your IQ just by walking through them. The buildings, based on the English Gothic style of Oxford University, form seven quadrangles. Amidst the old, like Harper College, is the new, like the Graduate School of Business, the new athletic building and the new University of Chicago Press,
a modern, architecturally sophisticated structure that sits off to itself on 60th street.

I arrive and immediately notice that the campus is quiet. Most are undoubtedly in Regenstein Library—the center of campus life.


A few people are sitting on the grass, noses in books, some are walking—while reading (a requirement at the university) and a few are plugged into iPods walking slightly stooped by overstuffed book bags. I passed by the Laboratory Schools, which are really three schools (elementary, middle, and high school) on 59th Street, one of the main campus drags. The Lab schools are where so much of modern education theories and experiments originated, such as movable desks—that’s right, that idea began at the University of Chicago and the rest they say, “Is history.”

My next stop: Rockefeller Chapel built in 1928 in the American gothic style. It’s a magnificent monument and the place from which everyone who manages to finish school will graduate. According to mythology, when the Rockefeller family donated money for the founding of the university, the chapel was to hold all convocations. True or not, all graduations are held in Rockefeller Chapel even on blazing hot days when the cooler, beautiful Midway Plaisance goes unused. Thus, Chapel convocations mean limited graduation tickets, cramped quarters, lack of air conditioning and four to six separate commencement exercises in June to accommodate the many graduates and their families.

There’s the Robie House, completed in 1910 by architectural savant, Frank Lloyd Wright. The Robie House, which I’ve had the pleasure to enjoy a few receptions in, shows Wright’s signature Prairie style of sensuous fine and simple lines, low ceilings, wood beams, wood floors and modern touches—a man as much a genius as Picasso.

I took LSD, aka Rt. 41, northbound and enjoyed occasional glances of Lake Michigan on my right. The traffic sailed by and I was forced (happily) to ride faster than the posted 45 mph speed limit. The gears started feeling more familiar and I eased the bike through its six gears, relaxed, focused and unfettered. Possessing wings would not have made me feel freer. I was flying high on LSD.

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Only one photo taken from another source: (Library photo source: http://maps.uchicago.edu/north/rlibrary_pic.html)
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More pics here