I arrived in the southern 'burbs of Chicago on a Sunday afternoon. Motorcycle shops are usually closed on Sundays and Mondays--you know, the two days of the week on which it's most likely a bike will need servicing because everyone rides on the weekend? Imagine if you were a hobby fisherman trying to go out on a Sunday morning and all the bait shops were closed. Thankfully, in most large cities the really serious shops--those most likely to stock lots of tires and be happy to earn your money--have learned this lesson and are open 7 days of the week. In the Chicagoland area, roughly 28,000 square miles of suburbs surrounding cluster of high rises clinging to a riverbank, I was able to find exactly 4 shops that bothered to run Monday hours--none of them were open on Sunday--so I shelved reaching them 'til the next morning and went to dinner with my friend, Sharon.
Sharon keeps dogs. When she still lived in Southern California one of them ate my prescription sunglasses. I probably shouldn't have been surprised when one from the next generation ate my new winter socks. Sharon said I had to laugh.
Monday died as I waited for 10am and my chance to call the few open shops. None of them had anything close to what I needed in stock, though one shop did offer me a sportbike tire for the rear and a Harley tire for the front. B- for effort, guys. So I waited for 11am, 10am in Kansas City, and started calling shops there. I finally found an open garage and a cooperative mechanic who offered to make room for me in his schedule and to have the tires waiting. By this time it was noon and I was scheduled to meet some of Sharon's other friends for dinner and Da Bears's game at the local pub, so I opted not to spend 4 hours getting in and out of Chicago proper.
That's right, I went all the way to the Chicago area and I STILL haven't seen the actual city. Sharon, you better feel special!
Sadly, Da Bearss didn't do so well. You can see the level of excitement from the local crowd.
Honestly, one of the things about this trip I've really enjoyed is getting to spend time with friends I haven't seen in many years, so hanging out and hearing about the new boyfriend and what life is about right now is always my first choice over seeing the various ways man has used steel and concrete to claw his way into the sky.
I should also mention Sharon's, and now my, friend Patrick. A fellow motorcyclist, he came over to say hi and take a gander at the bike. Noting the condition of my tires he got on the internet to his group of rider friends and within 15 minutes had multiple offers to help from people with used but still serviceable tires and the machines to swap everything out--all for free. Sadly, the used tires being offered had only slightly more life in them than those needing replacement, but the efforts of the Chicago motorcycling community are appreciated.
Back on the road I discovered that in southern Illinois the windfarms go on FOREVER.
While more entertaining than the highway, these dirt tracks are also often interrupted by people doing actual work.
Some of the working vehicles are VERY wide. My mirrors almost didn't clear the ladder and the shoulder there is sloped.
Completely harvested fields brought smooth sailing until I got back onto paved roads.
Paved roadway and the speed it, seemingly, afforded brought joy to my heart and my riding skills to the attention of a local representative of the Illinois State Troopers' Society. The officer (T-Pain, as far as I can tell from his signature) appreciated my skill SO much that he actually took time out of his day to congratulate and award me with a certificate for my superior technique. I worked hard on persuading him to give my top speed more credit, but he insisted that 64 was the highest score he could give.
Quincy brought me lodging for the evening and my first, and possibly last, visit to a Steak 'n' Shake.
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