Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
through rural Michigan. My hope is that turning north again will give me an earlier look
at fall colors.
I mostly rode bike paths down to Chicago and back to Racine. Going south I followed
the Kenosha County path to the Illinois border (perfect timing; it had just been repaved),
where it connects to the mostly unpaved, straight-as-a-string Robert McClory trail
through Waukegan and other outlying northern suburbs and then to the Green Bay
trail, which runs alongside the commuter rail line through affluent Highland Park, Kenil-
worth, Glencoe, Winnetka, and Wilmette. It's all pretty unscintillating.
In Chicago I spent a sparklingly sunny afternoon in the city's marvelous lakefront
park, riding against the wind on the popular bike path from the entrance just south of
Evanston to downtown and then gliding with it back again. I bought a hot dog from
a vendor and sat in the sun eating it, watching the water and the joggers and cyclists
exercising at its edge. A dog owner applauded as his athletic Lab—I think it was a
Lab—swam across an inlet.
Is there a city in the world with as lovely a recreational expanse along its waterfront?
I hadn't been on the path in a dozen years, and it was a nostalgic occasion for me; great
fun, too.
Returning north toward Racine and Milwaukee, where the ferry embarks, and not
wanting to follow the same route in reverse, I rode west for a while—endlessly, it
seemed—through traffic-heavy streets in Skokie, in order to reach the Des Plaines River
trail, a winding path through woods and meadows that cyclists share with equestrians.
It's a pretty ride, for the most part, with the odd quality of running through seemingly
deep woods that are sometimes only a few dozen yards from busy highways, so the
tweeting-bird soundtrack you'd expect from the scenery is obscured; you hear roaring
motors instead. From the end of the trail at the Wisconsin border it was street riding,
and the city streets of Kenosha and Racine are no havens for cyclists.
All in all, the past several days—I've come to think of them as the Chicago
chapter—were a bit more anxiety-making than I'd bargained for. A nice, calming ferry
ride seems like just the ticket.
Friday, September 23, Muskegon, Michigan
Someone named Terence from South Bend, Indiana, wrote this to me:
I've enjoyed so many of your reports, truly. You're at your best as a writer when you
describe the scenery and, above all, the people you meet. As a cyclist, I understand the
need to dwell on the bike, your poor legs, and lack of energy, plus the traffic; but what's
compelling in your tale is the land and the people. Do more of that; your style soars and
