I look out the window throughout day. Dark out there. Flurries on and off. I keep going back and forth about it in my mind: public transportation or bike? I have a ticket to see Marc Ribot play in Evanston. It’s a fifteen mile ride. Arguments against taking CTA: three transfers, masked the whole way, dealing with plague-time meshugas, slower than biking it. Arguments for: it’s cold out. Might snow. Laziness.
I often hate buying advanced tickets to events because I never know where I’ll be mood-wise day of. In this case, it’s been booked for months. I love Ribot. He’s one of those guys who looks like he’s been pummeled by his long tangle with music and come out the other side with the scars and lumps to prove it. First thing I probably heard was Tom Waits’ Rain Dogs, but the guy has done so much before and after that record.
It’s ridiculous that I’m even considering not going. Guy’s not gonna be around forever. Can’t miss these opportunities. I look out the window again. No precipitation visible. Bike it is.
Archer to Loomis, cut over to Racine, then Ogden, Elston, Cortland, Southport, and Clark to the city limits. Chicago Ave the rest of the way. The weather’s no bother because the wind’s easy. It’s not the cold that’s ever a problem on the bike; it’s the damn wind. I listen to podcast interviews as I ride. It makes the time and distance disappear. I’m in Evanston in no time, though it’s actually taken nearly an hour and a half.
A couple hours later I’m back out on Chicago Avenue. It’s time to head home. I briefly consider hauling the bike up to the Purple Line, but the mental picture of standing and blocking a train door stop after stop puts it out of my head.
I flick on the music player and start pedaling south.