The village of Homer Glen has finally put in a series of bike paths that go all over our fair city. The northern terminus is right at the entrance to our subdivision. They cross some major and minor streets but mostly follow ComEd easements. Some day they'll connect with other paths and a cyclist could conceivably pedal all day without having to ride in traffic. I doubt it'll be open this year but it gives me something to look forward to next year.
In anticipation of that, here is something I wrote about my weekly ride.
Sunday Morning
Sounds are clearer, sharper at this hour but I’ve never been able to figure out if it’s an atmospheric effect or if my ears haven’t filled up with their daily dose of the cacophony of modern living. The latch to the shed snaps open crisply and there she is.
My trusty Schwinn Tempo, still looking pretty good after twenty-plus years and many thousand miles, awaits its Sunday run. It was teal at the bike shop. Most of it still is but the chain slapping against it has turned the lower right rear fork the color of rusted metal. The pits and scratches of years of use give it the character that only longevity can confer. Then there’s the seat. Rock hard, worn down to a sheen like a highly-polished leather boot by thousands of Spandex strokes, it fits that part of my anatomy perfectly. None of these open-channel, ergonomic, gel-cell “comfort seats” for us.
We used to do this eleven-mile circuit almost every day and many’s the night that the kids went with me after supper. Those days are over. The relentless encroachment of subdivisions has made weekday traffic a nightmare. Inattentive drivers on cell phones have made it downright dangerous. That’s why we’re relegated to this time of Sunday morning; very few are headed to work, most of the Saturday night party people are home and the churchgoers are still laying out their Sunday best. The only motorists out at this hour are on their way to the lake to cast their lines into the water.
High-pressure tires must be filled daily so I pump them to the prescribed 110 psi and off we go. Soon as we hit the main road, which is also the county line, we have to tackle a long, but not too steep, hill as if to see if a bike in its third decade and a rider in his seventh are up to it this morning. We are, and our reward is an equally long downslope out of the subdivisions and into the forest. Every Sunday I thank Daniel Burnham and the originators of the Forest Preserve District who, over 100 years ago, preserved this land in its natural state for all time. This is the Tampier Lake Preserve named after George Tampier whose quarry was flooded in 1964 to make a 160-acre recreational lake restrained by a ten-foot high arch dam.
Now on relatively flat land, forest on the right, savanna on the left, our shadow stretching across the road when there’s a gap in the trees, I breathe the fresh air and the daily grind fades away. It’s hard to believe we’re less than twenty-five miles from the heart of the City of Big Shoulders. Out here it’s all very simple; no deadlines, no phones, no faxes, no interruptions; just me, the bike and the open road. My only concern is getting up the next hill.
Before long I hear “passing on your left” followed by a pace line of fellow cyclists, so close in formation that their front wheels almost touch the rear wheel of the rider ahead. Each greets me with a friendly good morning as he passes and I respond in kind. In my younger years I’d have joined them but now I ride at my own pace and wish them well on their journey. Turning left at the crossroad, they’re out of sight in minutes.
Going straight, into the John J. Duffy Preserve, we pass a pond on the right and notice a mother duck hustling her brood into the reeds to protect them from the two-wheeled intruder. Now up another hill we pass twin flagstone gateposts that may have been made from tailings of the Illinois &Michigan Canal in the 1840's. They stand like sentinels to the past where a house now reduced to the remnants of a foundation once stood. Perhaps it belonged to a farmer who worked the bottom land at the other end of the hill. There, what’s left of fence posts mark a field, bisected by the road and now flooded as the lake filled in. No more than two feet at its deepest, this man-made lake can become parched, cracked mud flats in a dry summer.
Up another hill into Cap Sauer’s Holding and the prairie is now on our right stretching almost a mile, a scant reminder of the ocean of grass that gave our state its nickname. I don’t know who Cap Sauer is or was but his area is part of the largest contiguous area of preserves in the Forest Preserve system. This takes us to the northern terminus of our ride and we head east, prairie on our right, thick woods on our left. A herd of deer sunning themselves in the road doesn’t detect our silent approach against the breeze and, startled by our presence, they take off for the woods, high-kicking in all directions, their white tails disappearing into the foliage.
Turning south and back into civilization we pass the spot where the bell in the tower of a small chapel used to chime the quarter hour and was the timekeeper on our daily ride. It overlooked the ten-acre field where my club used to have its annual camp-out. The chapel and field are gone and in their stead are multi-million-dollar single-family homes, standing as temples to another god. Just another sign of what some would call “progress.”
Into a busier section of road now. This is where my son had his accident years ago. He had to dodge a car that forced him onto the shoulder and soft gravel which flipped him over the handlebars. He did a perfect tuck and roll, winding up on his feet with huge smile in his face. I guess those judo lessons paid off.
Normally we avoid residential areas but we turn into a nice one with shady old-growth trees and a few challenging hills. It’s always quiet at this hour and a nice break from what traffic there is on the main road. Here a red fox skittles across the road in search of breakfast. I watch it disappear into the bushes for a few seconds before looking back and noticing something different this morning...very different.
There’s a tree-lined driveway where the road takes a sharp right. I’ve often wondered how many drivers have mistaken it for a continuation of the road. Walking dreamily down that driveway to get the Sunday paper is a vision in nothing but a black robe. I say “robe” for lack of a better word; it’s long and covers her but it’s sheer as can be. I wish the sun was behind her but it’s behind me which is probably better since I’m invisible to her. To make sure she can’t hear me I peddle slowly to keep the freewheel from clicking. She strolls lazily toward the road perhaps in fond memory of last night’s passion or anticipation of what’s to come this morning. Or...maybe she’s seen the Sunday rider and is walking out to meet him after watching him pass by all these weeks.
No such luck. She finally sees us, grabs the paper, and runs back home. It was a nice, though short, dream but I have other thing to consider. My inattention to the road has allowed a mailbox to jump out in front of me and, if I avoid that, I must downshift or we’ll never get up the next hill.
Back out on the main road again past the eastern edge of Tampier Lake where the waves lap almost right up to the pavement. Speeding downhill I ask a fisherman if he’s having any luck.
He turns his head to the right to the sound of my voice but I’m already past and never hear the answer.
Up the next hill past the First Presbyterian Church, I wonder why there’s never a Second Presbyterian or Baptist or Methodist Church. By now my mind is void of all the quotidian thoughts that crowd it and room is made for esoterica like this.
One more quick pass through open country including a new preserve that was saved from “progress,” we’re back into the subdivisions and heading west. Here used to be a huge stable with horses grazing by the road. Now it’s humongous houses that, although occupied, never reveal their owners.
Crossing the main road we leave the McMansions and pass more normal dwellings to our south while cornfields and a few small farms blanket the north. Not long ago corn was king on the south side of the road too, but the new crop is houses, swing sets, and the occasional tomato plant. This is a quiet road and relatively flat. Pedaling is easy and I greet the walkers, joggers, and fellow cyclists I see out here every week.
Turning north we head the six hundred feet toward the entrance to our subdivision, the first in the area on our side of the county line. I check my mirror, make the left turn, and speed past the house like Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France. Well, maybe not like Lance Armstrong but at least I have the yellow shirt. After a victory lap around the block we head back to the shed. The Schwinn is safely put away in anticipation of next week’s adventure and I’m refreshed and ready to face the week to come.
