Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2012
Tulips
The city of Chicago plants thousands upon thousands of tulips throughout downtown every year. It's one of the many signs that winter is fading away, and that summer is around the corner. I've never actually seen anybody planting them though. They always seem to simply appear. One day the downtown sidewalks and medians are bare, and the next day they are singing with color.
In those early days of spring, when all of the flowers are new, it seems as though they could never grow old. They're bright and beautiful. They stand tall and proud. And they seem as if they'll be that way forever. There is no sign of fading colors. No limp stems. No fallen petals. Just pretty flowers. And for a moment, it just seems so simple.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Taxi
"...to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars --- compassion, love, and the subsurface unity of all things." - David Foster Wallace
I took a cab home from work last night. The driver was a middle-aged man and he had a thick accent that I assumed came from somewhere in Africa. He asked me where I was heading, and then he returned to his cell phone conversation. His voice was loud and his demeanor jovial. He had large hands with knuckles like fat acorns, a big soft smile, and deep lines on his forehead. He laughed often and with his whole body.
As the cab took us south on Halsted, I noticed something irregular about the driver's speech. A hitch and a stutter. And I felt a bit surprised by that. I was surprised because I have a preconceived notion, a shallow stereotype, of what a stutterer is like. Anxiety ridden, timid, insecure, etc. And this man seemed to be far from any of those things.
And then I realized that I was mistaken. There was no hitch. No stutter. The man was using a language that includes clicks and pops and something that seemed to come from the top of the throat and the roof of the mouth. As if he were gathering phlegm. The sounds were more quiet than those that were more familiar to my ears. Just soft and subtle sounds among the louder bits of English, French, and something unrecognizable.
And as I listened intently to the man's conversation, I became more and more curious about him. I climb into at least a couple hundred cabs a year, and almost all of those drivers are foreign born. But this time, as I listened to these foreign sounds from the back seat, I stopped to consider just how radically different this man's native country may be from the one that he lives in now. And I wanted to know about those differences. Or perhaps there are more similarities than I'd guess. Which I'd also like to hear about. Either way, I just wanted to hear this guy's story.
I didn't get his story though. He did finish his phone call a few blocks prior to pulling up in front of my building. So I was able to ask him where he was from. But that was it. I decided to be content with that.
He is from Algeria. The largest country on the African continent. Home to vast stretches of Saharan Desert. Home to the Atlas Mountains and Mediterranean coast lines. Large cities in the north. Oil reserves in the south. Home to obscene wealth and widespread poverty. Home to Berbers and Arabs. Home to despots and civil wars. Home to countless tribal groups and the cultural stamp of English/French/Italian colonial powers. Home to fishermen and blacksmiths. Beggars and thieves. Home to mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. And home to cab drivers.
And I wonder where this cab driver's story fits in. He was born in Algeria. A little baby. Probably some time in the 1960s. Probably into one of the densely populated cities in the north. Perhaps Algiers? Maybe Oran or Constantine? How long did he stay there? What was his experience like? What was his family like? Did he leave them behind when he left the country? Or were they here in Chicago with him today? Were they even alive? Does he miss home? Does he lay awake at night and think of somebody that is half a world away?
Obviously I'll never know the answers to those questions. Our paths crossed briefly. I won't be more than a slight gust of wind in the story of his life. But I want him, even if it's just a small piece of him, to be a bit more than that in mine.
I took a cab home from work last night. The driver was a middle-aged man and he had a thick accent that I assumed came from somewhere in Africa. He asked me where I was heading, and then he returned to his cell phone conversation. His voice was loud and his demeanor jovial. He had large hands with knuckles like fat acorns, a big soft smile, and deep lines on his forehead. He laughed often and with his whole body.
 |
| Sahara Desert |
And then I realized that I was mistaken. There was no hitch. No stutter. The man was using a language that includes clicks and pops and something that seemed to come from the top of the throat and the roof of the mouth. As if he were gathering phlegm. The sounds were more quiet than those that were more familiar to my ears. Just soft and subtle sounds among the louder bits of English, French, and something unrecognizable.
And as I listened intently to the man's conversation, I became more and more curious about him. I climb into at least a couple hundred cabs a year, and almost all of those drivers are foreign born. But this time, as I listened to these foreign sounds from the back seat, I stopped to consider just how radically different this man's native country may be from the one that he lives in now. And I wanted to know about those differences. Or perhaps there are more similarities than I'd guess. Which I'd also like to hear about. Either way, I just wanted to hear this guy's story.
I didn't get his story though. He did finish his phone call a few blocks prior to pulling up in front of my building. So I was able to ask him where he was from. But that was it. I decided to be content with that.
 |
| Algiers |
And I wonder where this cab driver's story fits in. He was born in Algeria. A little baby. Probably some time in the 1960s. Probably into one of the densely populated cities in the north. Perhaps Algiers? Maybe Oran or Constantine? How long did he stay there? What was his experience like? What was his family like? Did he leave them behind when he left the country? Or were they here in Chicago with him today? Were they even alive? Does he miss home? Does he lay awake at night and think of somebody that is half a world away?
 |
| Atlas Mountains |
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Alvarez Hardware Store
I walked down to my neighborhood hardware store about a month ago to get some keys made. It's a small store, and it seems to be run by just one man. I've tried to bring him whatever business I can over the last six and a half years that I've lived in this neighborhood, but that isn't much. I bought a new toilet seat a few years back. And I've directed a new neighbor or two to the store. But other than that, I've just gone there for keys.
The man was never unfriendly with me, but I usually felt like I picked up on some sense of frustration mixed with resignation coming from him. I figured that his store had to be struggling. It was usually empty, and my occasional need for keys wasn't going to keep him afloat. But there wasn't much I could do about that. I am a renter, rather than a home owner, so I only tend to the most minor repairs in my apartment.
It wasn't until this last trip there that I spent any significant amount of time thinking about the store, what it may mean to the man that owns it, and also, what it meant to me.
I arrived to find that the door was closed. The windows were covered from top to bottom with plain brown paper. And the iron gate that was typically pulled aside during business hours, was closed and locked. Alvarez Hardware Store had finally gone out of business.
I took a step back and took a moment to look at the store. I'd walked by it over a thousand times. I'd walked into it about a half dozen times. But I think that that was the first time I'd noticed the name.
This was presumably the name of the man that had owned and operated the store. I have no idea what his first name is. I never asked. But I immediately thought back to that aforementioned sense of frustration and resignation that I thought I got from him. And for the first time, the irony of his key making services struck me.
This neighborhood, Pilsen, has seen a significant demographic shift since I first moved here in the spring of 2005. The shift started before that. But even if I stick to the changes that I've witnessed first hand, the contrast between "what is" and "what used to be" is stark.
In 2005, I moved into a neighborhood that seemed to be comprised entirely of Hispanic families. That summer, I saw front porches crowded with friends and families every night. I saw kids playing in the spray of a fire hydrant. I saw mammoth 4th of July block parties. I heard an ice cream truck every 30 minutes. And there was even a small family circus that set up in the park every September.
Of course Pilsen was not an Hispanic Mayberry. There was a notable gang presence, and it was relatively easy to recognize the houses from which drugs were being sold. And on one evening I found myself frighteningly close to a shooting.
But on the whole, I felt like I'd moved into a tight-knit community of families that had laid down roots in the neighborhood. People knew one another, and I always got the sense that they looked out for one another.
Much of that feeling is still here in 2011. It just isn't as strong. The packs of children are thinner. The block parties are fewer and farther between. The songs of the ice cream truck less frequent. And I think 2008 was the last time that circus came through.
Today's Pilsen, while still predominantly Hispanic, is also home to people that look like me, and live lifestyles that are similar to mine. Single people in their twenties and thirties. Mostly white. Students and artists and hipsters and aimless wanderers. We came here, just a trickle at first, and then a steady stream. We provided a clientele for a few new restaurants and bars and coffee shops. Thrift stores became vintage clothing stores. We drove up the rent and fattened the pockets of the area landlords and real estate investors in the process. And we probably influenced the increased police presence and the improvements on the local CTA routes. (At a time when both of those public sector services are being defunded.)
But we didn't go to Alvarez Hardware Store. Except of course to get some spare keys for our new apartments. It must have felt something like making a weapon that you know may very well be the instrument of your death. Grinding keys for the new residents of what is soon to be your old neighborhood.
And as I looked at that closed storefront, I wondered, for the first time, about the man that used to stand behind that counter. I wondered how long Mr. Alvarez had had his store. I wondered if he has a family to support. I wondered if he has had to take a job at some big box store, making keys for low wages. Or if perhaps he found his way to something else. Maybe even something better?
I also considered the irony of my own role in the demise of this business, and that of other small businesses in the neighborhood. The small bakeries and taquerias. The tailor and the corner drug store. They are a part of the identity and the appeal of the neighborhood. They're a part of what attracted me to the place when I first walked down 18th street, just days after moving to Chicago. But their inexpensive goods and services can't handle the rent increases that I help to bring about. And the new demand for higher end commerce will continue to push them out. And some day down the road, I will wake up to see that the process is complete. That by my mere presence, I've helped to sow the seeds of the destruction of something that I once found beautiful.
And as these thoughts collected in mind, I didn't experience them with any sense of guilt. Nor did I feel any call to arms. The world changes. And I don't want to fight the dying man's fight against change, as long the living man's embrace of it is an option. I will probably leave a world that looks little like the one I was born into, and I wouldn't have that any other way.
However, I do want to be conscious of my active role in the world. And I want to be aware of those around me. I couldn't have saved Alvarez Hardware Store. But I could have known the man's first name. I could have taken a closer look at that particular piece of the neighborhood that I am so fond of. I could have taken a closer look at another man, and my relationship with him.
The man was never unfriendly with me, but I usually felt like I picked up on some sense of frustration mixed with resignation coming from him. I figured that his store had to be struggling. It was usually empty, and my occasional need for keys wasn't going to keep him afloat. But there wasn't much I could do about that. I am a renter, rather than a home owner, so I only tend to the most minor repairs in my apartment.
It wasn't until this last trip there that I spent any significant amount of time thinking about the store, what it may mean to the man that owns it, and also, what it meant to me.
I arrived to find that the door was closed. The windows were covered from top to bottom with plain brown paper. And the iron gate that was typically pulled aside during business hours, was closed and locked. Alvarez Hardware Store had finally gone out of business.
This was presumably the name of the man that had owned and operated the store. I have no idea what his first name is. I never asked. But I immediately thought back to that aforementioned sense of frustration and resignation that I thought I got from him. And for the first time, the irony of his key making services struck me.
This neighborhood, Pilsen, has seen a significant demographic shift since I first moved here in the spring of 2005. The shift started before that. But even if I stick to the changes that I've witnessed first hand, the contrast between "what is" and "what used to be" is stark.
In 2005, I moved into a neighborhood that seemed to be comprised entirely of Hispanic families. That summer, I saw front porches crowded with friends and families every night. I saw kids playing in the spray of a fire hydrant. I saw mammoth 4th of July block parties. I heard an ice cream truck every 30 minutes. And there was even a small family circus that set up in the park every September.
Of course Pilsen was not an Hispanic Mayberry. There was a notable gang presence, and it was relatively easy to recognize the houses from which drugs were being sold. And on one evening I found myself frighteningly close to a shooting.
But on the whole, I felt like I'd moved into a tight-knit community of families that had laid down roots in the neighborhood. People knew one another, and I always got the sense that they looked out for one another.
Much of that feeling is still here in 2011. It just isn't as strong. The packs of children are thinner. The block parties are fewer and farther between. The songs of the ice cream truck less frequent. And I think 2008 was the last time that circus came through.
Today's Pilsen, while still predominantly Hispanic, is also home to people that look like me, and live lifestyles that are similar to mine. Single people in their twenties and thirties. Mostly white. Students and artists and hipsters and aimless wanderers. We came here, just a trickle at first, and then a steady stream. We provided a clientele for a few new restaurants and bars and coffee shops. Thrift stores became vintage clothing stores. We drove up the rent and fattened the pockets of the area landlords and real estate investors in the process. And we probably influenced the increased police presence and the improvements on the local CTA routes. (At a time when both of those public sector services are being defunded.)
But we didn't go to Alvarez Hardware Store. Except of course to get some spare keys for our new apartments. It must have felt something like making a weapon that you know may very well be the instrument of your death. Grinding keys for the new residents of what is soon to be your old neighborhood.
And as I looked at that closed storefront, I wondered, for the first time, about the man that used to stand behind that counter. I wondered how long Mr. Alvarez had had his store. I wondered if he has a family to support. I wondered if he has had to take a job at some big box store, making keys for low wages. Or if perhaps he found his way to something else. Maybe even something better?
I also considered the irony of my own role in the demise of this business, and that of other small businesses in the neighborhood. The small bakeries and taquerias. The tailor and the corner drug store. They are a part of the identity and the appeal of the neighborhood. They're a part of what attracted me to the place when I first walked down 18th street, just days after moving to Chicago. But their inexpensive goods and services can't handle the rent increases that I help to bring about. And the new demand for higher end commerce will continue to push them out. And some day down the road, I will wake up to see that the process is complete. That by my mere presence, I've helped to sow the seeds of the destruction of something that I once found beautiful.
And as these thoughts collected in mind, I didn't experience them with any sense of guilt. Nor did I feel any call to arms. The world changes. And I don't want to fight the dying man's fight against change, as long the living man's embrace of it is an option. I will probably leave a world that looks little like the one I was born into, and I wouldn't have that any other way.
However, I do want to be conscious of my active role in the world. And I want to be aware of those around me. I couldn't have saved Alvarez Hardware Store. But I could have known the man's first name. I could have taken a closer look at that particular piece of the neighborhood that I am so fond of. I could have taken a closer look at another man, and my relationship with him.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A Collection of Random Thoughts From a 17 Mile Run Through Chicago on a Cool Fall Day
Standing on my front step. Looking at the light rain. Hesitant. And finally into the street. The first steps are good. Not great. But better than what I'd feared. Tightness in both upper thighs and my right calf. But nothing that I can't run with. And the left ankle feels fine for now.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Marathon #2 - Chicago, Illinois
2) Chicago
I ran my second marathon in Chicago on October 11, 2009. My finishing time was 3:41:27. It's hard to see how this one could have gone much better.
Having completed my first marathon earlier in the year, I started training for Chicago with the clear goal of getting faster. I had found something that I loved, and that I felt I was good at, and I wanted to see how far I could push it.
I had several reasons to believe that I'd finish this race much faster than the first. I had already been training for months for the first race, so I'd be building on top of a much stronger base this time around. I would also be running a flat course, as opposed to fighting the hills in Austin. And I had the advantage of being at home. Having the chance to get a good night's sleep in my own bed, after having cooked exactly what I wanted to eat, was a big comfort. I had been developing a routine for the nights before my long training runs, and I loved the idea of not having to alter that before the actual race.
I piled up the miles all summer. And as fall approached, I was was boiling over with confidence and excitement. I felt physically strong for the first time in my life, and I was anxious to get out there and give the new wheels a spin.
Race day weather was fantastic. I think it may have been around forty degrees when I walked to the el train before dawn. The course runs two blocks from my house, and it was exciting to walk down the street and watch all of the volunteers setting up the water stations in my neighborhood. That home turf feel was easy to feed off of.
Seven of my friends/coworkers were running that morning as well. I met up with most of them for a brief moment, but we soon parted ways. The crowd was massive, and I wanted to get to gear-check, and then work my way up as far as I could.
The sea of runners was something that I didn't fully appreciate until I was in it. This was only my sixth race of any distance, and the previous five totaled together wouldn't add up to a quarter of the number of people that stood on Columbus Ave that morning. All of them waiting to run.
Once the starting gun was fired, it took nearly twenty minutes for me to reach the starting line. And even when I did finally cross, the pace only picked up a little bit. We shuffled through that first couple of miles shoulder to shoulder, zigzagging through the eastern edges of downtown. It wasn't until we finally turned onto LaSalle, that I was able to find some daylight to run through.
But from there on, I didn't run into too many outright bottlenecks. I was still running with a lot of people that were moving at a slower pace than I was, and it did get tight in some spots, but I could usually find a hole to squeeze through.
By the time I reached the half way mark, the crowd had started to thin out. I'd been trying to take back the minutes that I'd lost in the early going, but my success was limited. The crowd just wasn't conducive to the fast, straight-line running that I needed in order to recapture the spent time.
The crowd was helpful in its own way though. Running among so many is quite a rush. And while I don't ever root against other runners (My battle is with myself.), it was empowering to find myself passing so many people, mile after mile. And when fatigue and pain did eventually creep up on me, I felt like I could draw on the energy of everything that was happening around me.
A big part of that energy came from the spectators. Austin had had spectators, but not like this. Locals lined the streets nine and ten deep at some points, friends and families of runners carried signs and noisemakers, and music blasted from the apartment buildings that we passed. It wasn't exactly the Super Bowl, but it was a major sporting event, and participating, rather than watching, was awesome.
When we ran south of Chinatown and started into Bridgeport, I could feel the first undeniable signs that I was breaking down. But this was the 20 mile mark. Quite a bit further along than the last time. And again, I think the location helped a lot at this point. The neighborhoods that we ran through for miles 18 through 26, were the neighborhoods that I ran through every day. That familiarity was comforting. I could look back on the runs through those streets just fifteen months earlier, when I was heaving and panting and struggling to get through a five mile run. I drew strength from the understanding that I'd come so far already. And it helped to know exactly where I was. I had no need for mile markers out here. I knew the course. I knew where the Finish Line was. And I knew what I'd need to get there.
When we turned onto Michigan Ave., I finally found the uncrowded straightaway that I'd been looking for. But there were only a couple of miles to go, and the idea of speeding up to pick up some minutes was long gone. The only thing left at that point is to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I managed that all the way to Roosevelt, which is where we turned to run along the southern edge of Grant Park, and where we were faced with the only hill on the course. It's one block long, and it's followed by the flat two blocks that lead to Finish Line. In my mind, I envisioned a strong finishing kick, similar to the one that I'd found at the end of the Austin Marathon. But that hill wasn't having it. I was able to run through it without slowing my pace, but I'd have to be content with that. There just wasn't anything left for a kick.
Once again, I finished the race to find myself in a state of elation, peace, exhaustion, and pain. I had some muscle spasms just past the finish line that were more excruciating than any other running pains that I've felt before or since. But those did pass. And within a couple of hours, I was on my feet again.
I had knocked more than a mile per minute off of my time, and I felt invincible. The idea of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, which had been growing in my mind for some time, shot straight to the forefront of my thoughts. 2009 was coming to a close, and I had fully felt the empowering impact of running marathons. It was all beginning to feel easy. But 2010 was on the way. And I would be reminded time and again throughout that year, that nothing worth having is easy. I was about to discover the humbling impact that running marathons has to offer as well.
I ran my second marathon in Chicago on October 11, 2009. My finishing time was 3:41:27. It's hard to see how this one could have gone much better.
Having completed my first marathon earlier in the year, I started training for Chicago with the clear goal of getting faster. I had found something that I loved, and that I felt I was good at, and I wanted to see how far I could push it.
I had several reasons to believe that I'd finish this race much faster than the first. I had already been training for months for the first race, so I'd be building on top of a much stronger base this time around. I would also be running a flat course, as opposed to fighting the hills in Austin. And I had the advantage of being at home. Having the chance to get a good night's sleep in my own bed, after having cooked exactly what I wanted to eat, was a big comfort. I had been developing a routine for the nights before my long training runs, and I loved the idea of not having to alter that before the actual race.
I piled up the miles all summer. And as fall approached, I was was boiling over with confidence and excitement. I felt physically strong for the first time in my life, and I was anxious to get out there and give the new wheels a spin.
Race day weather was fantastic. I think it may have been around forty degrees when I walked to the el train before dawn. The course runs two blocks from my house, and it was exciting to walk down the street and watch all of the volunteers setting up the water stations in my neighborhood. That home turf feel was easy to feed off of.
Seven of my friends/coworkers were running that morning as well. I met up with most of them for a brief moment, but we soon parted ways. The crowd was massive, and I wanted to get to gear-check, and then work my way up as far as I could.
 |
Once the starting gun was fired, it took nearly twenty minutes for me to reach the starting line. And even when I did finally cross, the pace only picked up a little bit. We shuffled through that first couple of miles shoulder to shoulder, zigzagging through the eastern edges of downtown. It wasn't until we finally turned onto LaSalle, that I was able to find some daylight to run through.
But from there on, I didn't run into too many outright bottlenecks. I was still running with a lot of people that were moving at a slower pace than I was, and it did get tight in some spots, but I could usually find a hole to squeeze through.
By the time I reached the half way mark, the crowd had started to thin out. I'd been trying to take back the minutes that I'd lost in the early going, but my success was limited. The crowd just wasn't conducive to the fast, straight-line running that I needed in order to recapture the spent time.
The crowd was helpful in its own way though. Running among so many is quite a rush. And while I don't ever root against other runners (My battle is with myself.), it was empowering to find myself passing so many people, mile after mile. And when fatigue and pain did eventually creep up on me, I felt like I could draw on the energy of everything that was happening around me.
A big part of that energy came from the spectators. Austin had had spectators, but not like this. Locals lined the streets nine and ten deep at some points, friends and families of runners carried signs and noisemakers, and music blasted from the apartment buildings that we passed. It wasn't exactly the Super Bowl, but it was a major sporting event, and participating, rather than watching, was awesome.
When we ran south of Chinatown and started into Bridgeport, I could feel the first undeniable signs that I was breaking down. But this was the 20 mile mark. Quite a bit further along than the last time. And again, I think the location helped a lot at this point. The neighborhoods that we ran through for miles 18 through 26, were the neighborhoods that I ran through every day. That familiarity was comforting. I could look back on the runs through those streets just fifteen months earlier, when I was heaving and panting and struggling to get through a five mile run. I drew strength from the understanding that I'd come so far already. And it helped to know exactly where I was. I had no need for mile markers out here. I knew the course. I knew where the Finish Line was. And I knew what I'd need to get there.
When we turned onto Michigan Ave., I finally found the uncrowded straightaway that I'd been looking for. But there were only a couple of miles to go, and the idea of speeding up to pick up some minutes was long gone. The only thing left at that point is to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I managed that all the way to Roosevelt, which is where we turned to run along the southern edge of Grant Park, and where we were faced with the only hill on the course. It's one block long, and it's followed by the flat two blocks that lead to Finish Line. In my mind, I envisioned a strong finishing kick, similar to the one that I'd found at the end of the Austin Marathon. But that hill wasn't having it. I was able to run through it without slowing my pace, but I'd have to be content with that. There just wasn't anything left for a kick.
Once again, I finished the race to find myself in a state of elation, peace, exhaustion, and pain. I had some muscle spasms just past the finish line that were more excruciating than any other running pains that I've felt before or since. But those did pass. And within a couple of hours, I was on my feet again.
I had knocked more than a mile per minute off of my time, and I felt invincible. The idea of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, which had been growing in my mind for some time, shot straight to the forefront of my thoughts. 2009 was coming to a close, and I had fully felt the empowering impact of running marathons. It was all beginning to feel easy. But 2010 was on the way. And I would be reminded time and again throughout that year, that nothing worth having is easy. I was about to discover the humbling impact that running marathons has to offer as well.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Night After Puzzle Night
I went for a night run earlier this evening. I don't do that often. I usually run early in the afternoon. But today was a hot and muggy day, and I just didn't feel like going out. But then the sun went down, and a small storm came through and cooled things off a bit.
I took off a little after 9:00. It had just rained. It was a brief but heavy summer rain, complete with thunder and lightning and strong winds and tornado warnings. But the heart of the storm had moved on by the time I left my apartment. All that was left was an occasional sprinkling of warm rain and a few straggling gusts of wind.
I turned north when I left my place, and I was soon out of my neighborhood (Pilsen), and running through the UIC campus. I passed a couple of other runners on the campus. But other than that the streets were relatively free of pedestrians, which is a welcome contrast to the congestion of my mid-day runs.
As I ran through Greektown, I glanced into a bar that I sometimes stop in late at night when I don't have sense enough to go home. There is a good spot for gyros next door, and they'll bring your food over to the bar for you. That late night gyro, the cheap beer, and the animated conversation that inevitably takes place with George the bartender is sometimes just too strong of a pull for me to resist. But tonight I just glanced through the window as I ran by. George was in there. Leaning back against the shelves of booze. Arms folded on top of his big belly.
I turned east on Adams and headed toward the Loop. As I passed over the expressway, I looked down to see every lane jam packed with cars sitting at a dead standstill. I have to admit that I took a smug satisfaction at their immobility and I picked up my pace, happy for the freedom of movement that I was enjoying.
I zigzagged through the streets underneath the darkened office buildings. There is very little residential property in that section of downtown, and even fewer late night businesses, so these streets were mostly empty and quiet as well. I did pass one woman. She was walking alone, and had I given that any thought, I would have been careful to make my presence known, with a cough or a few loud steps perhaps, before running past her. But I didn't think of it until I was right behind her, and as I ran by, she jumped and clutched her arms to her chest. I felt a little bad for scaring her like that. I knew that I'd just broken a form of runner's etiquette, but as a daytime runner it was just something that I didn't think of.
Once I crossed the south branch of the Chicago River, I turned north again. I passed through the theater district and crossed Wacker Drive so that I could run along the wide sidewalks that line the main branch (Would it be called the trunk?) of the river. I followed that down to Michigan Ave. The streets and sidewalks were a bit more crowded in that area, as the skies cleared and the tourists came out of their hotels.
I reached Millennium Park and decided to cut through there and make my way to the lake. As I entered the park, I once again saw a woman walking alone. This time I realized right away that I should give her a sign that I was there well before I passed her. But due to some inexplicable impulse, I didn't go with the standard cough or the loud steps. I just started whistling a tune. It worked, in the sense that she heard me and she turned to look at me well before I reached her. But the sight of a lone runner coming fast and whistling must have seemed odd. And so instead of startling her, I think I caused her to be genuinely afraid. She just stopped in her tracks and stared at me as I ran by her.
Leaving her behind, I crossed through the park, made my way across Lake Shore Drive, and turned south onto the lakefront path. The harbor there is about ten or twelve blocks long, and at this time of year it is full of boats. But with a few exceptions, the boats were mostly vacant at that hour. The only signs of life, were a few solitary lights and one radio that was tuned to a baseball game. I wondered what might be happening on those few boats. Was somebody sitting on the water by themselves, maybe having a cold beer and listening to the game? And were the more quiet boats home to couples that might be enjoying a romantic evening? Or was somebody just doing some needed maintenance at an odd hour?
When I reached the middle of the harbor, my thoughts about the boats, and the possible nature of the people on them, vanished. At that midway point, the boats give way to the wide mouth of the man-made inlet, which opens into the vast black void of Lake Michigan. I caught myself slowing down as I looked out into that dark space. It's a strange thing to stumble upon while running through such a large city. Of course I already knew that the lake was there. It had been my conscious destination for the last couple of miles. But somehow it was still a bit of a surprise.
I kept running, and soon the boats reappeared, and my view of the lake was once again obstructed. But now I could smell the lake, and not just the sea scented air that is always present near the water. The storm had stirred up the smells from the bottom. Smells of damp earth and even waste, that managed to be not unpleasant.
With that smell in my head, I reached the museum campus and turned west. I know that I ran up Roosevelt and back through UIC, but my mind had drifted away from my immediate surroundings at that point and I honestly can't remember much of what I passed. My thoughts wandered through the past and into the future. Through my life as well as the lives of others.
And then I was almost home. I passed under the 16th street viaduct that separates UIC from Pilsen, and as is often the case, I snapped back into the present at that location. My mind often wanders when I run, but the moment that I pass under those tracks, I always seem to be jarred awake.
I stopped to walk the last block home. About 40 yards ahead of me, a drunken man turned at the sound of my footsteps and aimed one of his two beer cans at me and fired an imaginary shot. He squinted at me afterward, as if surprised that I hadn't fallen. And then he turned back around and stumbled into the park, as I reached the steps to my building, opened the door, and climbed the stairs.
Tomorrow I'll go back to work.
I took off a little after 9:00. It had just rained. It was a brief but heavy summer rain, complete with thunder and lightning and strong winds and tornado warnings. But the heart of the storm had moved on by the time I left my apartment. All that was left was an occasional sprinkling of warm rain and a few straggling gusts of wind.
I turned north when I left my place, and I was soon out of my neighborhood (Pilsen), and running through the UIC campus. I passed a couple of other runners on the campus. But other than that the streets were relatively free of pedestrians, which is a welcome contrast to the congestion of my mid-day runs.
As I ran through Greektown, I glanced into a bar that I sometimes stop in late at night when I don't have sense enough to go home. There is a good spot for gyros next door, and they'll bring your food over to the bar for you. That late night gyro, the cheap beer, and the animated conversation that inevitably takes place with George the bartender is sometimes just too strong of a pull for me to resist. But tonight I just glanced through the window as I ran by. George was in there. Leaning back against the shelves of booze. Arms folded on top of his big belly.
I turned east on Adams and headed toward the Loop. As I passed over the expressway, I looked down to see every lane jam packed with cars sitting at a dead standstill. I have to admit that I took a smug satisfaction at their immobility and I picked up my pace, happy for the freedom of movement that I was enjoying.
I zigzagged through the streets underneath the darkened office buildings. There is very little residential property in that section of downtown, and even fewer late night businesses, so these streets were mostly empty and quiet as well. I did pass one woman. She was walking alone, and had I given that any thought, I would have been careful to make my presence known, with a cough or a few loud steps perhaps, before running past her. But I didn't think of it until I was right behind her, and as I ran by, she jumped and clutched her arms to her chest. I felt a little bad for scaring her like that. I knew that I'd just broken a form of runner's etiquette, but as a daytime runner it was just something that I didn't think of.
I reached Millennium Park and decided to cut through there and make my way to the lake. As I entered the park, I once again saw a woman walking alone. This time I realized right away that I should give her a sign that I was there well before I passed her. But due to some inexplicable impulse, I didn't go with the standard cough or the loud steps. I just started whistling a tune. It worked, in the sense that she heard me and she turned to look at me well before I reached her. But the sight of a lone runner coming fast and whistling must have seemed odd. And so instead of startling her, I think I caused her to be genuinely afraid. She just stopped in her tracks and stared at me as I ran by her.
Leaving her behind, I crossed through the park, made my way across Lake Shore Drive, and turned south onto the lakefront path. The harbor there is about ten or twelve blocks long, and at this time of year it is full of boats. But with a few exceptions, the boats were mostly vacant at that hour. The only signs of life, were a few solitary lights and one radio that was tuned to a baseball game. I wondered what might be happening on those few boats. Was somebody sitting on the water by themselves, maybe having a cold beer and listening to the game? And were the more quiet boats home to couples that might be enjoying a romantic evening? Or was somebody just doing some needed maintenance at an odd hour?
When I reached the middle of the harbor, my thoughts about the boats, and the possible nature of the people on them, vanished. At that midway point, the boats give way to the wide mouth of the man-made inlet, which opens into the vast black void of Lake Michigan. I caught myself slowing down as I looked out into that dark space. It's a strange thing to stumble upon while running through such a large city. Of course I already knew that the lake was there. It had been my conscious destination for the last couple of miles. But somehow it was still a bit of a surprise.
I kept running, and soon the boats reappeared, and my view of the lake was once again obstructed. But now I could smell the lake, and not just the sea scented air that is always present near the water. The storm had stirred up the smells from the bottom. Smells of damp earth and even waste, that managed to be not unpleasant.
With that smell in my head, I reached the museum campus and turned west. I know that I ran up Roosevelt and back through UIC, but my mind had drifted away from my immediate surroundings at that point and I honestly can't remember much of what I passed. My thoughts wandered through the past and into the future. Through my life as well as the lives of others.
And then I was almost home. I passed under the 16th street viaduct that separates UIC from Pilsen, and as is often the case, I snapped back into the present at that location. My mind often wanders when I run, but the moment that I pass under those tracks, I always seem to be jarred awake.
I stopped to walk the last block home. About 40 yards ahead of me, a drunken man turned at the sound of my footsteps and aimed one of his two beer cans at me and fired an imaginary shot. He squinted at me afterward, as if surprised that I hadn't fallen. And then he turned back around and stumbled into the park, as I reached the steps to my building, opened the door, and climbed the stairs.
Tomorrow I'll go back to work.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Springtime In Chicago
Springtime in Chicago does not happen by force of nature alone. Springtime in Chicago is a collective act, shared by the the millions of souls that call this place home. Nature does her part too. The trees, when you can find them, turn green here, just as they do in the suburbs. The flowers bloom on our windowsills and along the downtown streets, just as they tumble down the hillsides in the rural midwest. And the same sun that thaws the lakes for our neighbors in Wisconsin and Michigan, grows more bold and assertive here day by day. It seeks out the last patches of hardened snow and ice, and it vanquishes them to the far ends of our calendars.
But Nature does not do these things alone. Nature just provides the cue for the people of the city to stand up and yawn and stretch, and begin the work of creating Spring. You begin to feel the rumble when the mercury climbs above forty, like standing on the tracks as a distant train approaches. Curtains are pulled back. A hand pauses above a heavy coat that has been used every day for months, and then moves on to a light jacket instead. Wool caps and furry hoods are traded in for bare heads and White Sox hats. Bicycles are pulled from storage closets. Car windows roll down and cars stereos are turned up. All across the city, construction sites come alive with hammers and curse words and coffee thermoses. Ground crews pull back the tarps at Comiskey and Wrigley. Buckingham Fountain is turned back on in Grant Park. The drawbridges that cross the Chicago River, are lifted up as the first boats begin the parade to Lake Michigan. Basketballs bounce on the blacktop. Restaurants, bars, and coffee shops bring chairs out onto the sidewalks. In Pilsen, the street vendors wheel their carts out from the shelter of their winter homes, and spread throughout the neighborhood offering tamales and sliced mangoes. Hot dog stands open their doors in Bridgeport. Short skirts hug the curves of young women in Lakeview and Lincoln Park. Joggers march along the lakefront path from Hyde Park to Rogers Park. Chess players settle in behind North Avenue Beach. Ice cream trucks snake through the streets of Ravenswood. Beer cans pop open on the porches of Canaryville. Tourists begin to stream from the hotels in The Loop. Bartenders sweep sidewalks in the Ukrainian Village. And in Wicker Park, the babies in strollers and the tight jeaned hipsters fill their lungs with the fresh spring air.
And as the creation of Spring nears completion, and the first signs of Summer appear, we may, if we're paying attention, get a moment to pause and take in our handiwork. Its a bit like looking back at the two hour line you waited in just before you finally get on the roller coaster, and realizing that leaning on the railing and eating popcorn with your girlfriend was part of the ride too. It might be the cool May evening that asks you to put on your sweater one last time. It could be a quiet mist on the lake as you take in an early morning jog. Or it may happen while pulling the last packet of hot chocolate from the kitchen cabinet as a midnight thunderstorm washes the streets outside. But the moment is there somewhere, waiting to be found. And for that moment, suspended in between the comings and goings of different worlds, we can see our place in it all. We can see our inseparable place in the infinite movement of everything.
But Nature does not do these things alone. Nature just provides the cue for the people of the city to stand up and yawn and stretch, and begin the work of creating Spring. You begin to feel the rumble when the mercury climbs above forty, like standing on the tracks as a distant train approaches. Curtains are pulled back. A hand pauses above a heavy coat that has been used every day for months, and then moves on to a light jacket instead. Wool caps and furry hoods are traded in for bare heads and White Sox hats. Bicycles are pulled from storage closets. Car windows roll down and cars stereos are turned up. All across the city, construction sites come alive with hammers and curse words and coffee thermoses. Ground crews pull back the tarps at Comiskey and Wrigley. Buckingham Fountain is turned back on in Grant Park. The drawbridges that cross the Chicago River, are lifted up as the first boats begin the parade to Lake Michigan. Basketballs bounce on the blacktop. Restaurants, bars, and coffee shops bring chairs out onto the sidewalks. In Pilsen, the street vendors wheel their carts out from the shelter of their winter homes, and spread throughout the neighborhood offering tamales and sliced mangoes. Hot dog stands open their doors in Bridgeport. Short skirts hug the curves of young women in Lakeview and Lincoln Park. Joggers march along the lakefront path from Hyde Park to Rogers Park. Chess players settle in behind North Avenue Beach. Ice cream trucks snake through the streets of Ravenswood. Beer cans pop open on the porches of Canaryville. Tourists begin to stream from the hotels in The Loop. Bartenders sweep sidewalks in the Ukrainian Village. And in Wicker Park, the babies in strollers and the tight jeaned hipsters fill their lungs with the fresh spring air.
And as the creation of Spring nears completion, and the first signs of Summer appear, we may, if we're paying attention, get a moment to pause and take in our handiwork. Its a bit like looking back at the two hour line you waited in just before you finally get on the roller coaster, and realizing that leaning on the railing and eating popcorn with your girlfriend was part of the ride too. It might be the cool May evening that asks you to put on your sweater one last time. It could be a quiet mist on the lake as you take in an early morning jog. Or it may happen while pulling the last packet of hot chocolate from the kitchen cabinet as a midnight thunderstorm washes the streets outside. But the moment is there somewhere, waiting to be found. And for that moment, suspended in between the comings and goings of different worlds, we can see our place in it all. We can see our inseparable place in the infinite movement of everything.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
April 5
I was anxious before my run today. 21 miles is a long way to run, and I'd never gone that far during training before. I'd always stuck to the widely accepted rule that while training for a marathon, your longest run should not exceed 20 miles. It wasn't the extra mile that made me anxious though. I'd have been a bit nervous if it were 20, or even 18. That's just a long way to go, and I know that if I'm not feeling my best that day, its going to get tough towards the end. But I decided back in February that I was going to push harder for this race, and so push is what I'll do. After all, conquering those fears and tearing down self imposed limitations are a big part of what running these races is all about.
I set out at 1:00 pm on the nose. I ran southeast to start, and I was out of Pilsen within minutes. I passed through Chinatown and into the northern edge of Bridgeport. I was feeling good but not great at this point. I felt a little stiff, but no real pains. And I was catching a few strong gusts of wind, but nothing sustained. By the time I turned east into Bronzeville and then headed north towards downtown, I knew I was going a little too strong. Its easy to do without even thinking about it at the beginning of a long run. If your mind doesn't tell your body whats coming, your body won't bother to hold anything back.
Running down State street, from Bronzeville to the South Loop, you can see the slow and seemingly sporadic process of gentrification as it makes its way south. It doesn't happen one block at a time. It happens one building at a time. New condos on this block. A couple of hip restaurants on that one. But plenty of old run down properties still among them. Warehouses, housing projects, liquor stores and fast food spots are still common. But not as common as they once were.
By the time I got to Roosevelt and turned into Grant Park, the aforementioned contrasts were gone and I was in Downtown Chicago. Scrubbed and clean as to appear welcoming and not the least bit threatening to the tourists and suburbanites who've made their way here to shop and pass through the museums, pizza parlors, and bars.
I cut over to the lake and saw that the buoys were back in the water. The boats won't be far behind. I passed Navy Pier and Ohio Street Beach and saw only a sprinkling of tourists. Summer is close but it isn't here yet.
As I got to the north end of Oak Street Beach I saw the Pigeon Lady. She had fewer birds around her than usual. But she sat motionless as ever. Bundled up under multiple layers of coats and scarves, she sat on the sand and stared out at Lake Michigan. I have no idea what she looks like. I've only seen her back. And I know even less about what might be going through her head as she sits there, day after day.
As I approached the boat house at North Ave Beach, I realized that I was getting a little tight. I wasn't even close to the half way mark, so that was a little disheartening. But I was able to put that out of my head fairly easily as I moved west and into Lincoln Park and headed for the zoo.
I was only peripherally aware of the animals as I ran through the zoo. My thoughts were wandering back to April 5, 1994 at that moment. That was the day that Kurt Cobain killed himself. I was in Houston visiting my Uncle Bob, who was fighting through the final stages of lung cancer in the next room. It was late at night and the rest of the family was in bed. I sat in the living room with only the light of the TV, and when I stopped on MTV for a moment, I learned from Kurt Loder that Cobain's body had been found in his Seattle home. My cousin Shelli came home a little later. I think she was about 21 years old at the time. I was 19. We sat in front of the TV as the news of his death was repeated. I had been reminded of that earlier this morning when I saw on the internet that today was the 17th anniversary of that death.
I ran past the ponds on the north end of the park and made my way through Lakeview, Boystown, and Uptown. When I hit Montrose, I turned left and ran along the back side of Graceland Cemetery. I'd wanted to run through the graveyard, but by the time I located the entrance I was heading south on Clark, and I had already ruled out the possibility of backtracking. I passed by Wunder Cemetery as well. Wunder is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, as opposed to the high brick walls of Graceland, so I could at least let my gaze comb the grounds. But again, I didn't feel up to exploring, so that was all that I was going to get out of north side cemetery tour.
By the time I got to Wrigley, the Cubs game was well under way. The streets and sidewalks were relatively clear. Those that had tickets were in the park, and the rest were on bar stools.
I was becoming genuinely fatigued by the time I turned onto Sheffield and made my way south towards Lincoln Park. (The neighborhood this time. Not the actual park.) When I'd got as far as Belmont I accepted that I was going to need something to drink. I ran into the drugstore across from the Vic Theater, made my way through the maze of stuff that I didn't need, grabbed a sports drink, downed that, and got back on the road.
I passed a few pretty girls when I ran by DePaul University, but I didn't notice much else at that point. My thighs were hurting, my hamstrings were wound tight like fishing line, and I wasn't aware of much that was happening outside of my own body. I was far from out of gas, but I was constantly taking stock of my condition.
When I turned onto Clybourn, and saw Halsted in the distance, my spirits lifted. Halsted was the home stretch, and while I was fading, it was a slow fade. I didn't see any wall on the horizon, and I didn't anticipate seeing one.
Running south on Halsted, I slowed and then stopped as I approached Division. Across the street a wrecking ball (it was actually more of a wrecking block) was knocking down the last building in Cabrini Green. I looked around and saw that others had stopped to watch as well. Nobody was speaking, as far as I could tell. We all just stood there and watched as the last piece of this infamous housing project was knocked down.
I've only lived in Chicago for six years. And by the time I got here, Cabrini's fate had already been decided. Condos and boutiques lined the streets just one block away. And the residents of this failed experiment were already being relocated. I don't think I've ever even met anybody that has lived there. But I couldn't help stopping to look. A lot of lives had passed through those buildings on that little chunk of earth. Lives that are so different from mine in so many ways, that it would feel dishonest and arrogant to even speculate on what it would have been like to live there. But a piece of American history was coming down before my eyes, and I couldn't help but be moved. Though I'm still uncertain of the root and nature of whatever it was that I was feeling.
My legs began to stiffen as I stood there, and I took that as my cue to get moving. I was about 17-18 miles in, so stopping for any significant length of time was a bad idea. The bridge on Halsted that carries you across the river is being rebuilt, so I turned west on Division and followed Hooker street around and back to Halsted.
I had a couple more bridges to cross and I'd be in Greektown, and from there I was almost home. Just a quick shot across the UIC campus. My body was sore and the running was slow, but my mind was clean and clear. I jogged through the last few miles with a quiet calm inside of me. Even the outside world seemed a bit more peaceful. Cars seemed slower, the sun a bit more soft, and the city noises seemed like they were far off in the distance.
When I touched the mural on 19th street, which is my finish line when I'm coming home from the northeast, my legs locked up almost immediately, and the pain began in earnest. But the peace remained. It was 3:50 pm when I got to my building. I talked briefly with a neighbor before excusing myself. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, downed some water, and laid down on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chin.
At that moment I was empty. Mentally and physically, I was empty and at peace. And I laid there like that. With just the hint of a smile at the corners of my mouth. Letting the beauty of it all soak in.
Five and a half weeks until the Cleveland Marathon.
I set out at 1:00 pm on the nose. I ran southeast to start, and I was out of Pilsen within minutes. I passed through Chinatown and into the northern edge of Bridgeport. I was feeling good but not great at this point. I felt a little stiff, but no real pains. And I was catching a few strong gusts of wind, but nothing sustained. By the time I turned east into Bronzeville and then headed north towards downtown, I knew I was going a little too strong. Its easy to do without even thinking about it at the beginning of a long run. If your mind doesn't tell your body whats coming, your body won't bother to hold anything back.
Running down State street, from Bronzeville to the South Loop, you can see the slow and seemingly sporadic process of gentrification as it makes its way south. It doesn't happen one block at a time. It happens one building at a time. New condos on this block. A couple of hip restaurants on that one. But plenty of old run down properties still among them. Warehouses, housing projects, liquor stores and fast food spots are still common. But not as common as they once were.
By the time I got to Roosevelt and turned into Grant Park, the aforementioned contrasts were gone and I was in Downtown Chicago. Scrubbed and clean as to appear welcoming and not the least bit threatening to the tourists and suburbanites who've made their way here to shop and pass through the museums, pizza parlors, and bars.
I cut over to the lake and saw that the buoys were back in the water. The boats won't be far behind. I passed Navy Pier and Ohio Street Beach and saw only a sprinkling of tourists. Summer is close but it isn't here yet.
As I got to the north end of Oak Street Beach I saw the Pigeon Lady. She had fewer birds around her than usual. But she sat motionless as ever. Bundled up under multiple layers of coats and scarves, she sat on the sand and stared out at Lake Michigan. I have no idea what she looks like. I've only seen her back. And I know even less about what might be going through her head as she sits there, day after day.
As I approached the boat house at North Ave Beach, I realized that I was getting a little tight. I wasn't even close to the half way mark, so that was a little disheartening. But I was able to put that out of my head fairly easily as I moved west and into Lincoln Park and headed for the zoo.
I was only peripherally aware of the animals as I ran through the zoo. My thoughts were wandering back to April 5, 1994 at that moment. That was the day that Kurt Cobain killed himself. I was in Houston visiting my Uncle Bob, who was fighting through the final stages of lung cancer in the next room. It was late at night and the rest of the family was in bed. I sat in the living room with only the light of the TV, and when I stopped on MTV for a moment, I learned from Kurt Loder that Cobain's body had been found in his Seattle home. My cousin Shelli came home a little later. I think she was about 21 years old at the time. I was 19. We sat in front of the TV as the news of his death was repeated. I had been reminded of that earlier this morning when I saw on the internet that today was the 17th anniversary of that death.
I ran past the ponds on the north end of the park and made my way through Lakeview, Boystown, and Uptown. When I hit Montrose, I turned left and ran along the back side of Graceland Cemetery. I'd wanted to run through the graveyard, but by the time I located the entrance I was heading south on Clark, and I had already ruled out the possibility of backtracking. I passed by Wunder Cemetery as well. Wunder is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, as opposed to the high brick walls of Graceland, so I could at least let my gaze comb the grounds. But again, I didn't feel up to exploring, so that was all that I was going to get out of north side cemetery tour.
By the time I got to Wrigley, the Cubs game was well under way. The streets and sidewalks were relatively clear. Those that had tickets were in the park, and the rest were on bar stools.
I was becoming genuinely fatigued by the time I turned onto Sheffield and made my way south towards Lincoln Park. (The neighborhood this time. Not the actual park.) When I'd got as far as Belmont I accepted that I was going to need something to drink. I ran into the drugstore across from the Vic Theater, made my way through the maze of stuff that I didn't need, grabbed a sports drink, downed that, and got back on the road.
I passed a few pretty girls when I ran by DePaul University, but I didn't notice much else at that point. My thighs were hurting, my hamstrings were wound tight like fishing line, and I wasn't aware of much that was happening outside of my own body. I was far from out of gas, but I was constantly taking stock of my condition.
When I turned onto Clybourn, and saw Halsted in the distance, my spirits lifted. Halsted was the home stretch, and while I was fading, it was a slow fade. I didn't see any wall on the horizon, and I didn't anticipate seeing one.
Running south on Halsted, I slowed and then stopped as I approached Division. Across the street a wrecking ball (it was actually more of a wrecking block) was knocking down the last building in Cabrini Green. I looked around and saw that others had stopped to watch as well. Nobody was speaking, as far as I could tell. We all just stood there and watched as the last piece of this infamous housing project was knocked down.
I've only lived in Chicago for six years. And by the time I got here, Cabrini's fate had already been decided. Condos and boutiques lined the streets just one block away. And the residents of this failed experiment were already being relocated. I don't think I've ever even met anybody that has lived there. But I couldn't help stopping to look. A lot of lives had passed through those buildings on that little chunk of earth. Lives that are so different from mine in so many ways, that it would feel dishonest and arrogant to even speculate on what it would have been like to live there. But a piece of American history was coming down before my eyes, and I couldn't help but be moved. Though I'm still uncertain of the root and nature of whatever it was that I was feeling.
My legs began to stiffen as I stood there, and I took that as my cue to get moving. I was about 17-18 miles in, so stopping for any significant length of time was a bad idea. The bridge on Halsted that carries you across the river is being rebuilt, so I turned west on Division and followed Hooker street around and back to Halsted.
I had a couple more bridges to cross and I'd be in Greektown, and from there I was almost home. Just a quick shot across the UIC campus. My body was sore and the running was slow, but my mind was clean and clear. I jogged through the last few miles with a quiet calm inside of me. Even the outside world seemed a bit more peaceful. Cars seemed slower, the sun a bit more soft, and the city noises seemed like they were far off in the distance.
When I touched the mural on 19th street, which is my finish line when I'm coming home from the northeast, my legs locked up almost immediately, and the pain began in earnest. But the peace remained. It was 3:50 pm when I got to my building. I talked briefly with a neighbor before excusing myself. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, downed some water, and laid down on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chin.
At that moment I was empty. Mentally and physically, I was empty and at peace. And I laid there like that. With just the hint of a smile at the corners of my mouth. Letting the beauty of it all soak in.
Five and a half weeks until the Cleveland Marathon.
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