Ghosts in the Ivy, Even

I made it to the 606 Trail Wednesday and did a diligent 46 miles on the Schwinn.  The trail never lacks for entertainment.

Early on, I kept passing a guy with a boom box on his bike.  Ordinarily, I’d expect to hear a heap of s- and f- words made to rhyme.  Only my fellow biker happened to be playing some vintage War.  I was “Slippin into Darkness” on a sun-drenched autumn morning.

Mr. Backwards Man also put in an appearance.  This fellow runs the trail backwards, for an hour straight or more at a time.  How he doesn’t go crazy or get hurt is beyond me.  Mr. Backwards must be a person of strong faith, in God and/or his fellow human beings.  I should stop him someday and quote him a little Satchel Paige about never looking back to see someone gaining on him.  Is it even possible to look back while running backwards?

As for the biker who gave me a crisp military salute, who knows?  There are days I look to be military issue.  Or maybe this was a dis deeply rooted in his past.  Either way, it all happened too fast, with each of us pedaling in opposite directions, for me to salute back.

None of the trees on the trail had started changing color yet, but I did see some ivy turning shades of orange and red.  It reminded me of the time when Clare was in third grade and I picked her up from school to come with to Wrigley Field; a radio reporter wanted to interview me, author of a book on Comiskey Park, for my thoughts on the city declaring Wrigley Field a landmark.  He might have been hoping I’d go extreme South Side with a mic in my face, hate the Cubs hate their park, that sort of thing.  If so, I must have been a major disappointment.  For me, the place has always been separate from the players and fans.

The interview took place in the lower deck, just above one of those side-to-side aisles that don’t exist in new stadiums.  Clare ran up and down the aisle as I spoke on the importance of preservation, regardless what side of Chicago you come from.  The ivy looked as if Jack Frost had run his paintbrushes from one end of the outfield to the other.  Adding yet more color were the pink and purple of a late autumn afternoon sunset.          

It was the closest Clare ever got to playing on a major-league field.  Maybe her daughter will get there.