Resort Weather

Yesterday and today may be the first time in my long life that I’ve spent two consecutive days on the Chicago lakefront. You have to start some time, I guess. Yesterday, Michele and I took DuSable Lake Shore Drive north to the Sydney R. Marovitz (nee Waveland) Golf Course, abutting Lake Michigan. It’s due east of Wrigley Field, which allows camera operators during Cubs’ games to show the clubhouse/clocktower, along with sailboats racing by. The Clock Tower Café stands a few yards to the north. Trust me, this is a place to eat lunch outdoors. Don’t worry about errant golf balls. They have protective netting everywhere. With my wife getting ready to retire next month, I’m encouraging her to consider the different ways she can exercise. The woman is a fish, so swimming at the Y by us will be a big part of the mix. But Michele wants no part of biking, afraid that her husband will abandon her on some trail in the middle of nowhere. My daughter has this same fear, rooted in the time—let me emphasize here, the one time—she fell behind as a six-year old trying to keep up with Dad on his Schwinn. Walking is our compromise. And there’s no better place to walk than Chicago’s lakefront. Nature and the built environment, from golf courses to skyscrapers, impress each in their own way. In the summer, when the wind blows out of the east, you get the most refreshing of lake breezes. I’m happy to say my wife did three miles in 90-degree heat without any breeze to keep us from sweating like bears. Bears sweat, right? Then, today, I decided to do the lakefront trail. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, as in 90 degrees or more last week and this week and forever more, which ordinarily would mean no biking for me. But said wind blew out of the east, and brought fog along with it. I couldn’t see 100 feet out into the water at times or more than a quarter of a mile on land. But here’s the thing—it was so cool I wished I’d brought along a sweatshirt. Chicago weather, you gotta love it. Best of all, I did just under 38 miles without once thinking about Mickey Mouse or the owner who employs him.