My bed

No matter how decadent the Best Western, how ornate the Bed and Breakfast, how grand the continental breakfast of Comfort Suites... there is nothing that matches the warmth and security of my own bed.

So here I lie. 320 miles of bike riding from my parents stoop to my bed. I am a lucky woman. I cannot recount the number of times men we have met have shook their heads hearing about what my dad and I do, "ooee, I wish my son/daughter would do something like that with me." But, I am the lucky one. There is no one else I would rather bike 320 miles with. I honestly do not know if I could bicycle tour without my dad. I feel like such a child even writing that. But, bike touring is dangerous. Trucks come close. Potholes appear out of nowhere. Tires are flattened. I am reassured by the fact that my dad is there. I shared this sentiment with my dad, who of course assured me I would be totally fine on my own. I'm still not so sure of it, but if my dad says so...

Today was the final day on the road. It was a hard day. We only went about 55 miles, but we drove on very busy roads with very small berms. There was some point while biking through Gary that I was really considering stopping. I was just going to get off the bike and obstinately insist that we go no further like I was still a 10-year-old girl refusing to leave the barbie section. But, I am actually a 24-year-old woman so I biked on.

When we hit the south side of Chicago, we felt an ease overcome us. The south side is often painted as a sort of war zone. But, compared to the war zone of Hwy 12, the Chicago south side was a Shangri-la. As we biked up Ewing Ave., one woman looked at us in our matching outfits, and said to her friend, "oh, that's cute." Biking past a small catholic school, a young boy shouted out, "cool bike!" The city beckoned us into it. We stopped on Promontory Point and took in the view. We stopped at my office for a warm hello. We were heading on to our last stop before home, the bar.

1.5 miles from the bar, what do we hear? BUMP, BOOM, WHOOOOOSH. Flat tire. That is right. The first flat of our trip, 1.5 mile from beer. In 15 minutes, it is fixed and we are on our way. Beer has never tasted so good.

Thank you dad. Thank you tandem bicycles. Thank you trucks in Gary for not killing me. Thank you body for not giving up. Thank you Indiana for giving me bike paths at the moments that I most needed the respite. Thank you bed for being hear at the end of this journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy Bikers at The Map Room (photo: Chris Brunn)