Tuesday Pastiche

First, it's a bit early in the week for it, but...

ah, summer blooms! Along with the flowers and leaves and the pretty girls with barely any clothes on along Chicago's lakefront...

...so too bloom the amateurs on tri-bikes and no handling skills to speak of, "training" during rush hour...

...so too bloom the frumpy, middle-aged women named Helen and Bev, Joyce and Donna, who fly into jumpy, waving panic at the words, "on your left" as if a bicycle was the last thing they expected to encounter as they walked 4 abreast over a yellow line in the heart of the third largest city in the country...

...so blooms the hate.

Hate the path. Hate it.

I was up at 4:30 to do sprints at Montrose harbor with three others. Suck it.

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Bike to Work Week Haiku:

Cage, begone with you.
We'd rather spend our money
On more thoughtful things.

Than polluting smog,
And a big fat ass that you
Got at the drive-thru.

A bright, pink helmet
Fuel you eat instead of pump
And sexy, tan legs

Are much better ways
To lead you to happiness.
A "Hemi?" So what?

Ditch the car and gym...
Sunshine,wind, and blowing hair are
Better than stale air.

Hand over your keys.
Abandon the Cage of Rage.
You are free to be.


Leave the car, stop your road raging, embrace alternatives, and ride your ass to work! For according to the Chicago Bicycle Federation, anyone can do it!

Do something with your body for once. Help reduce congestion, make the city a better place, and while you're at it, make YOU a better place...healthy, active people are much happier.

Here's another great resource to deal with all of your lame excuses. No shower? Don't matter. Too far? Don't matter. What if it rains? Get a rain jacket, pussy. Get real. I bike out to Northbrook for a round-tripper of 40 miles two or three times a week...you can do the 15 miler downtown everyday. And if you get tired or have a flat, the buses have bike racks, and the Metra trains have room too...

And in all seriousness, be careful and watch out for thoughtless assholes.

See you at the Rally on Friday on Daley Plaza - 7am!

The Hidden Side of Chicago's Bike Routes: The Edgewater Beach Hotel

Nothing quite stands out like pink.

It catches your eye like a glint of sunlight off someone's watch. Especially when surrounded by dull colors of slate and gray and steel and black. Pink is the color that says, “Look at me! I’m super fabulous! Thanks for asking!”

So it is fitting that among all of Chicago’s lakefront, among all that mishmash of grey brick and black steel, of glass and brownstone, of turn-of-the-century masterpieces and the birth of modernist architecture, there is but one, sole, pink building. And it announces brightly, loudly, the north end of the Lakefront Trail.



The Edgewater Beach Apartments stands tall and proud at Bryn Mayr and Sheridan, carrying on the optimism of a bygone age, holding out for a neighborhood's distinctiveness against encroaching homogenization, with the echoes of Tommy Dorsey’s band and the happy shouts of celebrities and movie stars still reverberating within its hallways.

It was once a twin of a second building just to the south, and together they were the Edgewater Beach Hotel. A resort of sorts, it was a destination for the many rich and famous who visited Chicago from the Roaring Twenties through the war years and beyond. The building that is still standing, the pink Apartments, was built in 1927 as an expansion to the hotel. The original 400-room building, in Spanish-style stucco in the form of a Maltese Cross, was constructed in 1916 and stood where the black, monolithic condominium now dominates the northshore skyline.



The hotel was a victim of Chicago’s success, as the expansion of Lake Shore Drive from Foster northward in mid-1950’s removed the beach front, and the advent of television and air-conditioning further drove away the hotel’s clientele. The quality of service steadily declined as well with the sale of the original owners’ interest in the late ‘40s, and by 1967, the hotel had closed.

But in its heyday, the Edgewater Beach Hotel was the place to be and be seen in Chicago, and truly set the northside lakefront apart. It featured such national acts as Tommy Dorsey’s band, and you might have seen Bette Davis or Marilyn Monroe, Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig. Hotel manager William Dewey had a knack for booking top acts at the Edgewater, and all that talent and celebrity drove the allure of the Hotel and gave the now Historic Bryn Mawr District it’s name.

We're going to pull off the path now, and head into Chicago's neighborhoods and take a closer look at some of our favorite urban routes. So be sure and get a closer look at Edgewater while you're here. Stop in at Johnny Sprocket's Bike Shop for a quick tune up, grab a massive bleu-burger and take in the anti-Wicker scene at Moody's, sample some fair-trade coffee and attentive service at Metropolis, or experience the last vestiges of the area's Jewish heritage with a Reuben at the Bryn Mawr Deli.

Sources: Wikipedia.org, WTTW

Calling Rachael Carson

I hate target races.

I never do well in them. I let the pressure build up all weekend, and then once the race starts I second guess every move I make, and when anything bad happens, it cracks my will power like DDT does an eggshell.

Where’s Rachael Carson when I needed her?

It was pouring rain soon after we got to Spring Prairie. We spent an hour in the car joking, eating and watching the RADAR on my cell phone – it looked as if the entire state of Wisconsin had been covered in a four-year-old’s green, yellow, and red fingerpaint. But soon the flat grey mass overhead lightened and took on the dimension and texture of clearing skyies and we got underway only delayed about 45 minutes.

A few half-hearted efforts pushed the pace early, and by the end of the first lap I am sitting 3rd wheel at the base of the hill. A pretty big effort holds that place and as we crest I am with a Cuttin’ Crew rider and fellow XXX-er Sean Piper. I was told later the field split on that first time up the hill and the front pack was much smaller from here on out.

There’s a modest gap behind us and I try to get things organized and Sean takes the initiative as well and pulls through. Nothing formed and it wasn’t nearly enough, however, and the group got us back in early on the rollers after turn one. The pace stayed fast and as I tried to stay up front I couldn’t recover so had to fall back.



I was mid-pack next time up the hill, and began to have a hard time staying positive as I fell back farther. It wasn’t hard to get back up to the front by Turn 1, but I started thinking about lap 5’s hill, and basically the race was over right there.

Peter got off at the top on lap 2 with Al of Cuttin’ Crew and a KME rider, plus one other and they increased their lead to about 200 meters for the rest of the race. Sean Piper was a mad-man in the pack, chasing down anything and everything, and Jeff, John, Mike and I also worked well together to block for Peter those next two subsequent laps.

There were a few desperate attempts to bridge up on laps four and five, and I caught onto them, but only Chris Padenfield of Pegasus got off to finish a solo 5th when his wheel sucker - my wheel - died on the effort. I was forced to make a choice to bridge to Chris or get back in the pack, and the pack was closer, so in I went, thinking Chris would be next. Nope.

Then Jeff Holland strung out it hard on the back stretch coming to turn 3, and there I was sitting pretty at 3rd wheel in the pack when the hill came back for that last time.

And I choked.

What more can I say? Riders passed me on all sides as I mashed it way over geared, and lost all of my willpower and drive. A Cuttin’ Crew rider kicked me when I was down by throwing past me for 28th place or something like that. Good for him. I deserved it.




No more target races, at least as I am defining them now. And maybe I need to work harder during the week. And to start taking more risks to expand my race dynamic, poking the bear, I mean…sucker punching a gang-banger perhaps. Laughing at cops, or lighting firecrackers in my hand.

Well, fuck.

The Dow crashed today by more than 400 points.

Oil shot up 8% to $139 a barrel.

Unemployment is higher than anytime since 1986. And half of us work at Wal-Mart anyways.

Hmmmmmm.

I guess it's time to have a party:

http://view.break.com/513310 - Watch more free videos

Thursday Hate

Anyone can be an asshole. The truly great ones can do it without trying, simply by only thinking of themselves.


Classic examples, especially as see through the cycling focus of this blog, are the cagers that pass us with inches to spare, honk, swerve in our right-of-way, only because they can’t be put out to get to that red light 10 seconds later, or because they didn’t see us at all, since they were texting their idiot trixie-friend Ashlee about meeting up at John Barleycorn so they could get groped on the dance floor while getting dizzy on the GHB that’s been slipped into their Cosmopolitans.


And how about drivers who insist on proceeding into the intersection even though it is backed up, and when the light turns red, they block the oncoming traffic from getting through?


There have been roommates who don’t give you phone messages, or check the mail. There are people on the train who take up an extra seat with their bag, or even their feet, and then look at you like you have an anus in the middle of your forehead when you ask them to clear it so you can sit down. I also love the two dipshits that leave the “fag” seat in between them at the game or the movies. And the group of people that will sit at the bar, leaving only one seat between them and then next group, so when you and your friends come in, there’s no where for you to sit because there’s only (five) single seats.


Group dynamics on that one, I suppose. And I must have a thing about seats.


The common thread, regardless, is that all of these examples show a distinct characteristic, that of not going one iota beyond giving a shit only for you.


If you are an asshole, you could give not a fat…fuck.


Now take an individual who is either a sociopath - this includes drivers, who operate within a supposed acceptable range of behaviors on the road that say, in the grocery store, would get them punched in the face - or a psychopath, who simply does not distinguish right from wrong, and acts ONLY on the base instincts of satisfying the self. There is no moral restraint. And given our animalistic and violent instincts, this actually moves way past just being an asshole, into the realm of harming others.


Some notable psychotics include Jeffery Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Richard Nixon, and Enron.


Huh?


Yep. The Supreme Court in their landmark 1886 decision, Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad, ruled that corporations are individuals and therefore covered by the same rights afforded by the constitution to you and I. The rub lies in that it’s soul - or rather, the lack of one - is merely other human individuals acting on behalf of it, with their liability shielded by it. They are only following orders of the shareholders.


A 2003 documentary covered this sickening dynamic by discussing the symptoms of psychosis and their correlation with corporate behaviour; with notable examples including Enron’s manipulation of the California power market, Shell’s incitement of civil strife in oil-producing African countries for it’s own benefit, and Wal-Mart’s mistreatment of its workers, and cost-cutting measures that literally destroy American producers and small-town city-centers overnight.


Now, I must be really mad to write such a long introduction as all that. And after typing all that, what I’m about to share with you isn’t nearly as bad as all those examples I just provided. But the fact is, that as of yesterday, I am still dealing with Norwegian American Hospital nearly a year after getting hit by a car and spending the better part of the evening there strapped to a gurney with my neck immobilized...


And what they’ve most recently done to me, however inconsequential and minor it may be, is really pissing me off.


Fuck you, Norwegian!


A recap. June 14th of 2007, a driver turns left in front of me near El Cid in Bucktown, I go flying across his hood, and get an ambulance ride to Norwegian American Hospital courtesy of his auto insurance.


After spending three hours staring at the ceiling with not one person coming in to check on how I was doing, I finally started screaming at the footsteps I heard passing the doorway until someone came for me. That finally got the job done, and after X-rays showed there was no major damage to my spinal, I was finally freed from my prison, of sorts. My right arm and hand were still fairly numb and I still had eaten nothing since the Clif bar I’d had upon finshing my intervals on the lakefront and heading home.


There was only one ER resident and two nurses to care for the other patients besides me, four of whom had all apparently been beaten up by their husbands or boyfriends. One had a black eye that looked like movie make up, and worse than Rocky’s. Everyoneinawhile the smell of shit and vomit would pass by.


The entire facility was filthy, with dust bunnies below the beds, empty juice cups and napkins on the counter, and - naturally - full trash cans. Then the night began to resemble the last 15 minutes of Jacob’s Ladder, for as I went back upstairs for my CT scan, I spied a bloody gauze pad staring at me from the corner of the elevator. Any minute I expected severed body-parts.


By time I did get out of there at 02:30 and head over the fire station at Courtland and Damen to pick up my bike, I expected I would begin to see a bright light and wake to find out I was dead.


Instead I woke up the next morning with a bear trap clamped around my shoulder and I spent the day gulping 600 mgs of Motrin.


Fast forward two months later when I got the bill from Norwegian for my deductible. It was obviously a photocopy of an original invoice, and a bad one at that. It looked like it was sitting on the copier glass askew. And had highlighter marks on it.


I called the called the hospital and told them that I’d opened a claim against the dude’s auto insurer, and that they’d be paying the bill, once my treatment was finished and the case was settled. That was the last I heard of anything.


Typically, the insurer wants to settle in no more than 6 months, and by October, my treatments had been completed and I was no longer feeling the numbness in my arm and hands. I sent all my bills to the claims rep, and by late November, they made an offer, which I accepted. All the bills were paid as soon as I sent them, and by December, I received a check for my pain and suffering, as well as all of my out-of-pocket.


Then in January, I receive a call from a collections agency, on behalf of Norwegian American Hospital, for the ER bill on my deductible.


“I’m sorry, but the insurance agency paid that bill back in October. You must be in error.”


Typically, the rep for the collections agent said, very unprofessionally, “I don’t know nothin’ about that. I’m calling to collect this debt and that’s all I know. So will you pay this so we can stop calling you?”


“Um, I’m not going to pay it, and you’re going to stop calling me. You’ll hear from my claims representative. Don’t call me again. Have a nice day.”


I called my rep at the insurer, but she was on vacation, and I had to fax a copy of the invoice from the collection agency to her cover. But, since I didn’t hear anything further on the matter, I figured it was all put to bed.


Until Tuesday: “I don’t know nothin’ about that. I’m calling to collect this debt and that’s all I know. So will you pay this so we can stop calling you?”


Called my claims rep. She said to please fax the invoice again, and apologized.


And then yesterday (different person this time): “I don’t know nothin’ about that. I’m calling to collect this debt and that’s all I know. So will you pay this so we can stop calling you?”


Fuming and frothing more than my chamois crème was last night as I chased down Andy Daley, I called my rep. Voicemail. Not directing any anger at her, because quite frankly, my claim process over this whole ordeal had been completely painless until now.


Later that day, as I am on a conference call, the phone rings with the 800 number I recognize and I send it voicemail. A couple minutes later the message light turns on.


I play the message. It’s my rep and someone from Norwegian conferenced in:


“I’m sorry to have to conference you like this, but I just wanted Mr. Morrissey to hear this: so you’re telling me that you’ve had payment from us all along?


“Yes. I’m sorry.”


“So why was it sent to collections? Why wasn’t vendor notified?”


“I don’t know, I’ll have to ask my supervisor.”


Upon calling my rep back to thank her, she told no thanks was necessary and that she was disgusted by the whole process. Her opinion was that what happened was this:


Even though the hospital said they’d wait for the insurer’s payment, they sent me to collections anyways. The collector didn’t have their shit together to start harassing me until January, but when Norwegian received the payment directly, they didn’t bother calling the vendor because then they’d have to pay the % on it for the fee. For a goddmamn measly $275. Fucking up my credit and ruining my day with harassing phones from illiterates in the meantime.


Hey, Norwegian American Hospital, and any other corporation that screws over people instead of doing the right thing because profit is more important:

Chump Day

Looks like I'm not the only one that's recently had success with stepping up and facing the man. Let's cross our fingers and hope it continues for today's head-to-head in Lake County (all of the riders involved in the incident are being interviewed by the prosecutor today).

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Banality and escapism caught up in a swirling vortex of sugary uselessness and pretension.

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Ever hear the story about Greg Lemond getting explosive diarrhea during a 1986 Tour stage? This is what caused it.

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I went here for the first time last night. I need to work on my Flying 200.

Photos by Ed White:

From the Front Lines

Last night, I got into a bit of an altercation with a driver.

"So? Big deal?" you ask. Normally, yeah, arguments with drivers are as common as helmet visors at sprint triathlons. Except, this driver happened to be sitting behind the wheel of the Damen Avenue #50 bus.

(Side note: tough weekend. I had just gotten in from Madison after helping a friend relocate. I owed friend big for when I was looking for a job, but he'd not packed at all. At all. It was all I could do not to turn around and walk out the door. It seriously looked like a flea market in there. But, I really did enjoy spending the time with him, the break in routine, and seeing his awesome knew neighborhood. This is the pool two blocks from his place. This is a city park. No shit. Lesson to Chicago Park District: tax dollars really can go a long way. Awesome organic fair-trade coffee shop within walking distance too, as well as the idyllic gay couple next door, and we received eight unsolicited hellos from neighbors walking down the street. Plus he gave me a bottle of Dominus Cabernet Sauvignon. Wine heals all wounds.)

Anyways...asshole bus driver.

I realized I left my Rudys in friend's car so since I needed a ride anyways, I left on the hour round tripper from Logan to Roger's Park on my bike. I was on Damen heading north just past Lawrence when I first noticed the bus behind me, passing while speeding, and zooming into the next stop with no regard for my personal space whatsoever in the bike lane. It was though I was merely an obstacle.

I pass the bus at Ainsle, and as I am approaching Foster, where the Damen bus turns east, I sense the bus approaching at high speed again. I realize it is very likely this aggressive bus driver might attempt to turn right in front of me once past, so I look behind, signal, and take the lane, so he can position for his turn behind me instead.

He then honks, and we both come to a stop at the red light.

I turn around, and as I give him a dirty look for the honk and his aggressive driving, he opens his window and dresses me down:

"You need to be in the bike lane, man!"

I set him straight as to what the law actually states regarding bicycles in the right of way. I am immediately rebuked by the bus driver and told that I am the one who needs a refresher in traffic laws. I ask for his name and route number, and he then warns me that I "shouldn't cut off vehicles that are bigger than me."

I responded that I was taking that last comment as a threat and to expect a call from his supervisor.

I got home and sent an immediate letter to the CTA's Officer of the Attorney General, copying the BikeFed. I of course expected my plea for redress to go to the "ignore this hippie asshole" pile, so I added that I would write that office every single day until I received a satisfactory response.

Imagine my surprise and shock this morning upon receiving an actual reply from an actual person at the actual customer service office at the CTfuckingA! Completely professional, positive, and affirming the legality of my actions as I described them, they said the driver's supervisor would be informed immediately.

I plan on writing back to request I be kept informed as to the corrective actions taken against this particular driver. Not that I am seeking to have him fired, or take vindictive glee from his punishment in anyway, but that asshole needs to be shown the error of his ways. I'm abused on a daily basis by drivers, but to experience that from a public servant who's salary is paid by my fare card is something I will not stand for. Not from a professional driver. Not in this town where busses and bikes should be on the same team.

Public Transportation is part of the solution, and a bus driver who is not "on-board" is instead part of the problem.

Keeping on with the Fight for your Right.