Hellhole Ride

We took our chances today in the "hellhole," as Illinois governor candidate Darren "Downstate Dumbass" Bailey (R) calls my hometown of Chicago. To prepare, Mary holstered her mild-mannered Glock-19. I carried my personal favorite, a plain S&W 1911 E-series. I prefer .45 ACP, despite the kick that tends to throw my aim off; those big, tumbling bullets have the knockdown power to take out Chicago's hardened gang leaders, carjackers and bribe-crazed alderpersons. We donned our IIA bullet-resistant vests, reviewed our zig-zag driving pattern to confuse snipers, and headed into the Hiroshima-level wasteland that used to be a city before Antifa and Kim Fox arrived via caravan from Mexico.

/political sarcasm

Actually, our weapons of choice were two bicycles equipped with water bottles, face masks and a Kind bar just in case of the munchies.

I'd wanted to ride the new-ish "312 River Run" for a while, ever since reading about the bridge that was built along and over the north branch of the Chicago River. 

We parked the truck close to the southern end of the trail, right behind Lane Tech High School, a huge, striking brick structure ranked number 3 in Illinois Middle Schools. On the grounds is Kerry Wood Cubs Field, a $5 million baseball stadium funded by the Chicago Cubs, Chicago Cubs Charities, and the Wood Family Foundation. Kerry Wood, for those of you who are not from around here, is a former Cubs pitcher who tied the major-league record of 20 strikeouts in a 1998 game against the freakin' Astros (remember the murderer's row of Biggio, Bagwell, Alou?). A hometown hero.

Anyway. 

Such breathtaking beauty. Also, the river and stuff.

We started off north along the route and soon came to the amazing bridge over, along and across the Chicago River's north branch. 

When I was a youngin', you didn't dare get wet in the Chicago River -- if you did, you went to the hospital for a preventive course of antifungals and anti-bacterial medications. God help you if you'd actually ingested any of it. There were clots of toilet paper and god-knows-what ever-so-slowly working its way down toward the drinking-water intakes of every town south of Lemont.

We have come so far, ecologically, thanks to the Environmental Protection Agency (enacted by Richard Nixon! Thank you, Tricky Dick!) and an overall general awareness of things natural. One of the few positive outcomes of the 1970s.

Now look at this river: canoes and kayaks and fish jumping. Yeah, you can smell the river, and it's ... meh ... but trust me, on a warm day in August 1975, you would have gagged and possibly vomited being that close to the river for as long as we were today.

The 312 trail isn't very long, just a couple of miles, but that was OK because a mile or so east along bicycle-friendly Chicago streets brought us to Gene's Sausage Shop and Restaurant, a three-story deli, food store and rooftop biergarten. Mary had a Reuben and a rosé spritzer, while I had a Thuringer sausage with sauerkraut and a Paulanger Pils. We both ordered the red cabbage side, which turned out to be generous and we brought half home. We sat at big communal picnic tables in the shade of big umbrellas enjoying a cool breeze.

Gene's rooftop had a great view of the huge smoking crater that used to be Chicago because of the riots that took place on about one square block two years ago, but managed to level the entire city from Waukegan to Gary. Darn those BLM protesters and their nuclear weapons!

Mary was a trooper and assented to continuing the ride, so we headed a bit west to the North Branch Trail, which follows the Chicago River through the northside neighborhoods. Joining us on the trail were moms with strollers, Lance Armstrong wannabes, puffing joggers, just plain people of every stripe, number and color. The pavement was a bit rough in spots and could use some attention. But it's a great ride, zooming underneath major streets to avoid the traffic, and featuring a linear sculpture park from Lincolnwood on north.

Somewhere along the way, I looked back at Mary and saw "that look": time to turn around. We stopped at a shady park bench for a break, then headed south. With a tailwind, and no side-trip for sausages and rotkkohl, we arrived back at the truck in just under half an hour.

It would have been a wonderful, relaxed day, in an inviting bicycle-friendly urban landscape with diverse options for dining, living and transportation. Instead, we cowered in a radioactive, bullet-spattered hellhole, fighting and fearing for our lives! But vote for Darren Bailey, because he'll fix everything because he's so smrt smart.

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