On the right (cycle) track?

Chicagoans sound off about the new car-separated bike lanes on Kinzie

By John Greenfield

Richard M. Daley had a widespread, if somewhat undeserved, reputation as a bicycle-friendly mayor. But with Rahm Emanuel in power, along with progressive new transportation commissioner Gabe Klein, it looks like there’s going to be a sea change in the way the city pushes pedaling.

Emmanuel’s Chicago 2011 Transition Plan includes three bold, possibly unrealistic, bike goals. But it’s refreshing that the city is finally making big plans that have, to paraphrase Daniel Burnham, magic to stir cyclists’ blood.

The mayor’s bike proposal, obviously influenced by transition team member Randy Neufeld, founder of the Chicagoland Bicycle Federation, calls for expanding our anemic automated public bike sharing system from only 100 cycles to thousands of vehicles. The mayor also promises to build the Bloomingdale Trail, a 2.65-mile elevated rails-to-trails conversion on the Northwest Side within his first term, although it’s taken two years just to get the design contract approved and the price tag for the trail is estimated at $50-70 million.

The third goal may be the least realistic but most exciting, and there’s already rubber, nay bike lane paint, on the road. Rahm has pledged to install 100 miles of European-style “cycle tracks,” bike lanes that are physically separated from cars by medians, parked cars and/or posts, within his first four years in office. This would require a lot more money than is currently spent on striping eight miles of conventional bike lanes per year, and it would involve taking away travel lanes and parking spaces from automobiles.

Many bicycle advocates argue that separated bike lanes are the missing link for getting large numbers of people on bikes in North America. By removing some of the dangers of speeding motor traffic and opening car doors, cycle tracks take away the fear factor that prevents average Chicagoans from trying transportation cycling. Separated bike lanes have debuted with much fanfare in Portland, OR, New York and Washington, D.C.

However, cycle tracks can be problematic if they’re not done right. European cities with successful separated bikeway networks like Amsterdam and Copenhagen generally use special bicycle traffic lights to prevent collisions between right-turning cars and bikes emerging from the cycle track to cross an intersection. There will be no such lights on Kinzie, only signs warning turning motorists to stop for bikes and pedestrians.


People love to walk in cycle tracks, and garbage, broken glass and snow will accumulate in the separated lanes unless the city is careful to maintain them. Faster bicyclists may prefer to ride in the regular travel lane, but local laws require cyclists to use separate bike paths when available. As a result, those pedaling outside of the cycle track may be unable to successfully sue if a reckless motorist hits them.

Nonetheless Chicago cyclists, including this one, are getting excited about the cycle track that the Chicago Department of Transportation is currently installing on Kinzie Street between Milwaukee Avenue and Wells Street, connecting two of the city’s best-used bike lane streets. In general, the new separated lanes will be located next to the curb, to the right of the parking lane, and separated from parked cars by a diagonally striped buffer zone and flexible posts.


Though recent rains have delayed the project, the cycle track should be finished by the end of next week. Emanuel is sure to boast about it during his first speech at the Bike to Work Week rally next Friday, June 17, 7:30 – 9:30 am at Daley Plaza.

Last Friday afternoon I stopped by Kinzie to check out the work in progress. The sky was leaden but the air was perfumed by the Blommer Chocolate factory at the five-way intersection of Kinzie, Milwaukee and Desplaines.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the new lanes on Kinzie continue as dashed lines across every intersection between Milwaukee and Wells. Plus, at the five-way a new “bike box” waiting area and a curving, dashed lane across the intersection will make it much easier for southbound cyclists on Milwaukee to make a left turn onto Kinzie.


Right now cars are still parking next to the curbs in the cycle track instead of the new parking lane, but this will stop after the posts are installed and bike symbols are marked on the bike lanes.

I flagged down a few bike commuters to get their reactions to the new cycle track. Abigail Jasper, riding a Trek hybrid, says she’s excited about the separated lanes. “They’re going to protect bicyclists from drivers who may be too busy doing other things to pay attention to cyclists,” she says. She notes that it may take a little while for motorists and bike riders to get used to the new lanes. “There’s going to be a learning curve but we’ll figure it out.”


Scott Lambert, on a Masi single-speed road bike, is looking forward to protection from cars. “It’s great that the city is doing something for bikers,” he says. “I’ve been hit more than twelve times.” However he’s skeptical that the current cycle track layout is going to function well. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen at the intersections. This is a great idea in theory but they’re probably going to have to modify the design before it becomes sufficient.”

Newby bike commuter Patrick Crokin, pedaling a Giant mountain bike, is glad the new lanes will eliminate the risk of bicyclists getting hit by opening car doors. “This is really a great idea,” he says. “I’m just curious to see how they’re going to pay for all the new lanes.”

When I duck into the Blommer factory’s chocolate shop next to the five-way intersection, manager Kevin Schultz tells me the cycle track is pointless. “They should be spending money to improve the traffic and pedestrian flow here instead of wasting money on these bike lanes,” he says. “This is one of the worst intersections in the city. We stand here all day and watch people almost get hit when they cross Desplaines to the Jewel.” He says the city should instead be spending money for a turn signal to keep westbound vehicles turning left from Kinzie to Desplaines from hitting these pedestrians. “One of these days some lady with a kid or someone walking their dog is going to get killed.”


But Michael Bordenaro, waiting for the traffic light outside Blommer on his Raleigh mountain bike, thinks the city’s plan for 25 miles of cycle tracks per year is too conservative. “Citizens should go out with white paint and stripe 25 miles of bike lanes themselves this weekend and say, ‘Mayor Emanuel, thank you for your leadership. Now keep up with us.”

We made it! Jacksonville to LA in 3300 miles

After a stay in Jacumba on the Cali-Baja border, at a slighty grimey German-run hotspring—we were primed to “roll downhill” into San Diego. Yeah right.

It had been a monster climb up to the hotspring the day before (perhaps the toughest on the trip, though not half as tall as Emory Pass) so we were hoping the downhill would be rewarding. Unfortunately we had fairly tough up and downs on the top of the range, and then tons of smaller hills on the way into San Diego. The sun set as we scaled hill after hill, hoping that with the next pass the Pacific would be in sight.

And finally, with one last great roll down to sea level, it was. I skipped down to the Pier to tag the salty water. John and I celebrated the end of our journey (which fell upon St. Patrick's Day) with a great dinner at Anthony's seafood restaurant.

We visited my Uncle Pat and Aunt Girlie the next day before setting off for our “victory lap” to Los Angeles, which turned out to be a fun jaunt up to San Juan Capistrano through the swanky O.C. A comfy guesthouse was waiting for us with John's good friend Jake and his fiance Lauralee.

And before long, we were eating sushi in little Tokyo, wearing “civies” (aka not lycra), and driving around in a Mini Cooper with the top down. How easy it seemed to plop right back into civilization. But just as the smell of a campfire stays with you, memories of our great journey, I know, will always be with us. We had a blast.

Gas Station Picnics & Trailer Park Sunsets

• he title of this post might be the name of my new country album, featuring the hit song I'm still perfecting, “A Hot Shower and a Cold Beer.” Isn't that all one wants after a day of bicycling?
• Phoenix Sprawl - It probably took us just as long to exit Phoenix as it did for Adrian to fly back home to Chicago. Getting out of the sprawlng suburban area took forever, and we were both tired of the wide streets and facless architecture of these strange desert developments. Plush retirement communities run on and on past the city's Western edge, through towns called Surprise and Sun City. Unveiled in 1960, Sun City is just one of many communities created by the famous real estate magnate Del Webb. His name is everywhere—from the hospital to the arts center, making the whole scene a liittle Big Brother-ish. We had to watch out for golf cart crossings.
• Trailer Park Sunsets – We stayed at the oddest little trailer park in Palo Verde, Califonia. It was a fine place to stay for a mere six bucks, but it was strange in that most of the “mobile” homes were altogether permanent. Ramshakle little boxes with all kinds of makeshift additions, overgrown gardens, and other homey features. Dean, a content Hawaiian guy with long gray hair, faulty teeth, and no shirt, helped us set up a few lawn chairs around our campsite and made us feel right at home. And there was a lovely sunset.
• Dune Buggy Country – After descending into the lush sub-sea level Imperial Valley, and then passing through the Chocolate Mountains and the aerial gunnery there, John and I arrived at the massive Algodones Dunes. From the mountains they appeared to be this strange orange horizon in the distance, and they rose up quite suddenly and unexpectedly at the town of Glamis. Dune buggies—and basically any contraption a motor could be strapped to—were tearing out of the sand as if it were the mid-70s. Luckily the north side of the dunes was a protected wildlife area—the wind-rippled sand was intricate and beautifully patterned. Completely natural and without tire tracks.
• We met a bicycle hobo—not the first one we've seen on the trip—approaching the California border. We asked if he was bicycling across country. “No,” he replied. “I just went to Phoenix to get a typewriter ribbon.” Phoenix was then about five days away—quite a ride for a ribbon, but he did hand John a neatly typed, if half-baked, treatise on the Declaration of Independence.

Silver City, NM to Tempe Arizona

by John

Before leaving Silver City we picked up my bike from Gila Hike and Bike, a wonderful community-oriented shop, where they re-tensioned my rear wheel and sold me some heavy but flat-proof Schwalbe extra-kevlar tires. it was a rough day of riding with stiff headwinds that sometimes slowed us to a crawl. We decided to camp at a USFS primitive site near the base of the near dy's mountain climb.

It was the coldest night of camping ever but a big fire helped warm out feet. The next morning our water bottles were frozen and i was worried we'd have nothing to drink for the climb so I flagged down an old man from Maine who was leaving the campground and he kindly gave us some of his water.

The descent down the back of the mountain was exhilerating. At the bottom at a little crossroads called Three Way we met Tim, an itinerant preacher who said he'd been preaching in the poorest areas of Tuscon and was now heading to Albuquerque to bring the Word to the local crack dens. He was traveling via a $20 mountain bike with a large backpack on his back.

After a long, easy climb up Guthrie Pass we descended to the Gila River Valley growing area. We caught up with Adrian at the Bullpen in Safford, "The friendliest bar in town" where we consumed many excellent Bloody Mary's. I met Keith, an Anglo from Yuma, who spoke at length about how glad he was he'd gone to Mexico to find his third and current wife, a "sexy grandmother" at 45.

Next day we followed the Gila into the San Carlos Apache Reservation for much hilly riding. It was interesting to stop at a modern supermarket in the town of Peridot staffed and patronized entirely by Native Americans with signage in the Apache language.

We spent the night at the Apache Gold Casino Resort. Adrian camped out at the adjacent RV park, but I was pretty fried after riding and sneezing all day with a bad cold. I asked Liz if we could take advantage of the resort's "Stay and Play" package - a nice motel room, dinner for two and four cocktails for $59. Adrian got my two drinks since I wasn't feeling up for drinking.

Our waitress, a chubby local girl with pigtails and cat-eye glasses, was very cute. She nearly spilled the sauce from my pork loin in my lap and warned Liz not to order the Shrimp Alfredo because the crustacions looked past their prime. But she also told us she has Christmas lights installed in her wedding dress and unlike other girls on the reservation, preferred Warhol to 50 Cent.

There were two climbs the next day, after which we had a wonderful descent into the valley that holdss the Phoenix metro area. Although it's a desert, the area is lush with succulent plants, including 20-foot tall cactuses. There was a gorgeous moon rise as we made our way to Lost Dutchman State Park to camp underneath the awesome, tooth-like superstition Mountains.

Today we hung out and camp, hiked a little and visited a touristy ghost town before heading into the Apache Junction, Mesa and Tempe. The urban area is andd unrelenting grid of busy multi-laned streets, usually with bike lanes on theem, but all the locals seem to ride on the sidewalk.

At the end of the day at a bar we met Randy, a welder from Eau Claire, Wisconsin who is in town helping to build a cheese factory. He told us about the finer points of snowmobiling and ice fishing and he attributed his magnificent mullet to his being a redneck.

We stayed at a Super 8 in Tempe. Adrian was exhausted but Liz and I hit Mill Street, a happening nightlife area for Vieetnamese pho soup, excellent for my cold, and Irish whisky. The next day we'll part ways with Adrian who flies home, but it's been a lot of fun traveling with him.

Chiles, Emory Pass, and Gila Hot Springs

Gilly's Chiles

Hatch, New Mexico claims to be the chile capital of the world and is famous for the hot pepper that bears its name. In line at the grocery store, a tan and wizened man in a cowboy hat and dusty jeans told us we just had to try his salsa and invited us to his shop up the road to have our picnic lunch. He picked up a bag of tortilla chips and led the way in an old white pickup.

Gilly sat down at the picnic table beside us and proceeded to tell us his whole life story--from the girl he didn't marry (he's a bachelor for life, it seems, unless, as he put it, the good Lord sends something his way), to enlisting in the military, serving in Vietnam, and traveling the world on extreme ski trips while on military leave. He liked to ski so much, in fact, that he went 15 days AWOL, but got a break from his officer. John and I learned a lot about the views and opinions of a single man in New Mexico. Gilly has plans for a four-star hotel on his property, maybe a nightclub too, once his pension from the railroad comes in. We must have stayed at that picnic table for hours listening and eating salsa, which was, by the way, excellent. So if you're ever in Hatch, ask for Gilly's Chiles. He even outfitted us with matching Gilly's t-shirts. John and I give the place a ringing endorsement.

Emory Pass

John and I put the salsa and chiles to work the next night near Caballo Lake. We met up with Joe and Brian, two cross-country bicyclists from Santa Cruz, and had a Mexican-style feast, complete with Coronas and fresh-made guacamole. We got the low-down on Emory Pass, elevation 8228 feet, which the guys had just come down.

Even though the ride up the mountain was slow, with a strong headwind for us, John and I made it up the ridiculous hairpins and switchbacks without a hitch. Hwy 152 is just an insanely steep road, with lots of gorgeous pine forest. We descended down the pass just a few miles to a forest service picnic site with little log shelters, the perfect place to camp on a windy mountaintop.

"Downhill" to Silver City

Having climbed about 3800 feet in 35 miles, John thought the next day just had to be easy--we were wrong. Emory Pass seemed to be uphill both ways. A vicious headwind took the joy out of our big downhills and not to mention the highway has you winding up and downhill all day. Going "downhill" to Silver City was probably the toughest 40 miles we've biked on this trip.

Gila Hot Springs

John and I got to take a welcome day of rest, since we had planned to meet up with Adrian and Jim Friday in Silver City. We were psyched about rest--and not biking through the mountains again--so we decided to pick up a car and drive the 44 miles up to the Gila Cliff Dwellings national monument and Gila Hot Springs. I drove North on Hwy 15, and I have to say the craziness of this road topped Emory Pass--so many curves and climbs, it took almost two hours to get there! It was worth the trip, though, to see the five caves built into the Gila River canyon. They were built by the Mogollon around the 1200s, and today archeologists believe they were used more for ceremony and ritual then for actual habitation. John and I topped the day off with a visit to a one of the many natural hot springs in the area and had a good long soak.

Back in town, we met up with Adrian, who faced the same tormenting headwind we had the day before. (I hope it's not like this all the way to San Diego...). Unfortunately, Jim had to head back to El Paso in order to make his flight back to Quito, Ecuador, where he and his wife live and run a hotel. Today, the three of us mobilize for the Arizona border (near the unusually named town of "Three-Way"), heading straight into the wind.

To El Paso and beyond

by John

After we braved a horrible headwind all day long with several nasty climbs as well, the wind died down and we sped up to 14 mph and finally rolled into the small town of Sierra Blanca. Liz was exhausted and we planned to grab some cans of soup from a gas station, find a cheap motel and collapse.

Instead we saw Curly's BBQ and it looked inviting, so we decided to eat there. When we walked in they were setting up a karaoke machine and cans of Natural Lite were chilling in a tub. I asked if it was a private party but Treasa, the co-owner and waitress told us the restaurant was open and invited us to eat, drink and sing.

The place was filled with people whose jobs are associated with the criminal justice system. Curly, Treasa's husband and the grillmaster, works border patrol. Others included the female warden of the local jail, a trial lawyer and a bail bondsman called Boogeyman, probably because his job sometimes includes tracking down folks who don't pay the bond service on time.

As the evening wore on, jugs of tequila circulated and the singing got rowdier. I sang "Brandy, You're a Fine Girl" and Liz and I dueted on "Oh What A Night." Later I joined in on gang renditions of "Brick House" and "Let's Get It On."

Curly and Treasa insisted on giving us our delicious meals (mine was bbq-ed sausage and brisket with corn and slaw; Liz got the Big Mix, a basket of fried goodies) on the house. I gave a little speech to the crowd thanking the owners for their generousity the Sierra Blancans in general for being so welcoming. We went home that night very happy.

The next day we were rewarded with an amazing tailwind and long downhills toward El Paso, riding on the shoulder of the interstate, then on a lovely country road through little border towns where we picked up tasty Mexican snacks from extremely friendly people and had opportunities to practice our Spanish.

El Paso is a fascinating place, part of a bilinguagal metro area with Mexico's Ciudad Juarez, with a stunning mountain backdrop. We spent part of the next afternoon shopping for cowboy shirts and looking around the bustling downtown area where clothing and consumer goods are sold. Then, ignoring warnings about drug violence in Juarez, where many police officers have been killed, I crossed the border alone. I spent an hour or so strolling and snacking in what seemed like a peaceful, colorful, fun town, but I did note that there seemed to be no foreigners on the streets.

That evening my friend Jim and Adrian Redd, a father and son I know from Critical Mass, met us in El Paso with a last-minute plan to ride with us to Phoenix. I had spent the early evening running around town picking up panniers and camping gear for Jim, who lives in Ecuador and didn't have any with him in Chicago, where he was visiting his kids. I got the panniers at Crazy Cat bikes, near the U of Texas, where Rob the owner was very helpful but incredulous of me playing tourist in Juarez. "You're a brave little guy," he said.

Unfortunately, Jim woke up the next day with brutal cold symptoms and needed at least a day to recuperate, plus he wanted Adrian to do some gear shopping for him. Liz and I decided to hit the road so as to keep on schedule, after Adrian assured me he'd do the same thing in our shoes. Hopefully they'll meet up with us soon via bus or, a long, speedy day of riding.

Now we're camped in Mesilla, a pleasant little tourist town in New Mexico with adobe buildings, silver shops and a nice church and plaza. Tomorrow we head to Caballo Lake State Park where hopefully the Redds will meet us. After that we'll take on the highest mountain pass of the trip, over 8000 feet.

Crossing West Texs

People say that Texas goes on and on forever, even if crossing the state by car. In a guestbook we read in Louisiana, eastbound riders sang praises of the day they finally made it out. But here in El Paso, where Texas meets Mexico and becomes the southwest, I can't figure out what they were moaning about. The Texas we've experienced on our bikes has been a varied, beautiful, and interesting place--from boiled crawdads to lush rolling ranches to scrubby, mountainous deserts, and border towns. The Texas of my imagination was an image of sagebrush rolling across a ghost town crossed with thoughts of George W. Bush. How wrong I was, from Austin to San Antone to El Paso.


Desolate Days

The driest, most desolate days of our trip are now behind us--one 60-mile stretch and one 55-mile stretch with no services. Record highs have been scorching the Texas winter, and nothing dries you out like 90 degrees and a headwind. John and I were each carrying at least 5 bottles of water, but that wasn't enough. We realized that 30 miles in, we had already drank more than half of what we budgeted. Even though I'm sure we could have got to Marathon just fine, having only minimal water and knowing full well that there's none to be had around you, had a profound psychological affect on me, setting off a domino effect of worry. That paired with the same dry brown hills, over and over, with no sign of life but the occasional buffalo, made it a mentally taxing day. Luckily, a kind buffalo rancher named Gordon--who lived in the only ranch easily accessed from 90--let us in to top us our bottles in his kitchen sink, just as the last of our supply was depleted. I am glad that John did not attempt to siphon some off from the buffalo trough.

Such drama made a visit to the White Buffalo bar all the more rewarding. John and I discovered this cozy pub in tiny Marthon, Texas, in the back of the elegant Gage Hotel. Honestly, an elegant hotel and tavern was the last thing we were expecting in this sparsely populated region, but Marathon (population 400) has a great little bakery (the Burnt Biscuit), French grocery store, and spa--maybe that's because it's en route from the Interstate to Big Bend. Anyway, we met a bunch of Marathoners, many who had moved to town from elsewhere to retire, and celebrated Mardi Gras with a few drinks. Ray was a carpenter who grew up in Pilsen, and we had a great chat together. If there was one piece of advice Ray gave that I will remember, it is that, "Women love kitchens and bathrooms." It's true--nice tile work and a towel warmer. Mmm.

The next day, we ran into Ray and his white pickup twice on the way to Alpine. He pulled up and stopped both times to give us the best wishes on our trip. It seems like living in a warm climate does some folks a world of good.

Party Animals
We camped at Davis Mountains State Park the night we began our first big climb. The park was beautiful and remote, but unfortunately, we chose a site next to a school trip group of 80 eighth-graders. I swear there were at least 20 in the bathroom at any one time, and both John and I had to deal with calls of "Hey, who's in the shower?" and other other annoyances, but it was kind of funny in the end. Earplugs work wonders.

The real party animals of the night were the javelinas--wild, spiky-haired, pig-like animals that come out at night in droves to raid dumpsters and campsites. In spite of their cute appearance (their head is about one third of their body size), they are called javelina for their razor-sharp tusks/fangs. And, man, even though they are smaller than your average hog, they snort like you wouldn't believe.

When I awoke the next morning, John told me that during the night, he had awoke to snorting and heard my bike tumble to the ground. Apparently a "javelina party" of eight or more hogs had gathered around my bike, presumably to extract a jar of peanut butter I had forgotten to hang with the rest of the food.

Earth and Sky
Our biggest climb to date--though small potatoes compared to what's ahead--was from the stat park up to UT's McDonald Observatory, which houses the Hobby-Eberly telescope, the fourth-largest telescope in the world, with a primary mirror of roughly 9.2 meters. A telescope built for spectroscopy, it's about to be used in one of the biggest dark-matter experiments to date. Our guide at the observatory was a very brainy woman named Judy, whose husband is one of the primary telescope repair technicians. They live up on Mount Locke with about 70 other staff and researches, along with the visiting scientists who come to observe and crash at the astronomers' lodge. We would have liked to catch a glimpse of some astrophysicist, but they were all sleeping away the sunny and windy day. Their work begins when ours ends.