Biking to Milwaukee (with Some Help from Metra)

The idea was simple. Inspired by a recent long-distance bike ride, I would push myself to bike all the way from Chicago to Milwaukee. I eagerly looked up the distance online: About 90 miles.

Forget that.

Then I remembered that Metra allows you to put your bike on the train— and the Union Pacific North Line goes as far north as Kenosha, Wis., just over the state line. From there, I estimated from looking at a map, it would be just 30 to 35 miles to Milwaukee. Definitely doable in a day. Plus, riding up on a Saturday could set the stage for a nice weekend getaway in Wisconsin, offering the chance to explore communities and other local attractions along the shoreline, followed by an evening and part of the next day in Milwaukee.

The trip was set.

Under a bright sun, I arrive at the Clybourn Metra station, at Ashland and Armitage Avenues, in time for the 10:43 a.m. train. When it arrives, I secure my bike to a row of fold-up seats with a bungee cable, one of the requirements for bringing your bike on board. Because it’s Saturday, I take advantage of Metra’s weekend fare, five dollars for unlimited rides on its network (although I’ll be taking Amtrak back down tomorrow, five dollars is less than the price of a one-way ticket to Kenosha).

After a pleasant trip through the northern suburbs of Chicago, we arrive in Kenosha at around 12:15 p.m. I’ve figured that by keeping an average pace of about 10 miles per hour, including stops, I’ll arrive in Milwaukee in time for dinner.

As I set off from the Metra station on my bike, I feel a sense of freedom. Ahhh… the open road.

Downtown Kenosha. (Click on photo to enlarge.)

Wisconsin’s fourth-largest city, Kenosha is perhaps best known for its factory outlet stores. But those are at least a couple of miles inland, and my plan today is to stay as close to the lake as I can, both for the scenery and to keep the route to Milwaukee as direct as possible.

Not far from the Metra station, I stop to get a glimpse of a Kenosha streetcar. One of five refurbished vehicles that date back to 1951, the streetcar makes a 1.7-mile loop through the downtown area. The green-and-white car is photogenic (and the fare is only 25 cents), but I pass on taking a ride, opting instead to bike over to the waterfront. There, I come upon HarborMarket, an outdoor market along 2nd Ave. between 54th and 56th Streets, where vendors under white tents sell food, art, toys, and raffle tickets.

After browsing for a bit and purchasing a bottle of water (important in the mid-day heat), I stop briefly next door in the Kenosha Public Museum. Having opened in 1937 in a large restored post office building, the museum hosts exhibits on natural history and fine and decorative arts.

Continuing north, I head up 6th and then 7th Ave., passing local businesses, including a bike shop and The Coffee Pot, a coffee shop with outdoor seating next to a wall with a mural of greenery. It’s a cute setting, but I’m too eager to make progress to stop for lunch now. A little farther north, any thought of food has left my mind when I come upon a beautiful, expansive view of Lake Michigan from Pennoyer Park.

Unfortunately, there’s no one lakefront path all the way from Kenosha to Milwaukee. The best you can do is combine lakeside paths, inland trails, and roads. My goal this trip is to have as scenic of a ride as possible, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find before me the Pike Bike Trail, a path that heads up alongside the lake.

Soon, the path empties out onto a road at the edge of the campus of Carthage College. Because it keeps to the lake, I decide then to take state Highway 32, a four-lane road (now reduced to two lanes because of construction). But before long, I’m tired of riding over sand because of the construction, and I decide to head west for a more bike-friendly route— the Pike Bike Trail again, now a gravel-covered path that lies where tracks of the old Chicago North Shore and Milwaukee Railroad used to run.

Although it’s three-quarters of a mile inland from the lake, the mostly-straight trail makes for an easy ride, with trees and farmland on either side and the sound of birds chirping in the air. At 1st St., I pass from Kenosha Country into Racine County (the name of the path changes here to North Shore Trail), and in a little less than half an hour of biking, I’ve reached the village of Elmwood Park, just south of Racine. There, I leave the bike path for local streets, finally sitting down at around 3 p.m. to a pizza burger at Reflections, a family-style restaurant. Wanting to keep the break short, I soon head off again, zigzagging along the local roads of Racine towards the lake.

A bluff in General John J. Pershing Park offers a good view of the water. The sight of the lake during this ride soothes, if not inspires, me. Here, boaters and even a jet-skier are out. A little further north, a cluster of boats sits in Racine’s harbor; nearby, on a plaza adjacent to Festival Park, children in street clothes run through fountains.

Downtown Racine. (Click on photo to enlarge.)

Rather than seek out the North Shore Trail again, I decide to try once more to keep to the lakefront. Turning north on Main St., I come upon a succession of local stores and eateries, as well as the Racine Art Museum, whose collection of over 3,000 objects consists of contemporary works on different media; pieces dating to the 1930’s; and works on paper, paintings, and sculptures.

Main St. continues on over a drawbridge, which offers a view of moored boats off to either side, and then for some three more miles— passing right next to the Racine Zoo, which claims its own beach on Lake Michigan. A series of turns then takes me further north into Racine County, through areas with houses close enough together to resemble suburbia interspersed with open spaces that make for a rural feel. I don’t think I’ve ever passed so many signs for garage sales in a single day, and I stop at one to browse, walking off with a few pens for 25 cents.

Around a quarter to 6, I cross into Milwaukee County. Less than 45 minutes later, I’ve made it into Grant Park, a 381-acre park perched on Lake Michigan in the city of South Milwaukee. Riding through the lakefront greenery, I feel a renewed eagerness. I’m in the home stretch.

The trail I’ve stumbled onto leads through a thick cluster of trees with a ravine down below, providing the most dramatic change of scenery this trip. At some point, if I haven’t already, I make it onto the Oak Leaf Trail, part of the Milwaukee County Park System that continues along the lakefront all the way to the city of Milwaukee. I head up through Warnimont Park and Sheridan Park; past a game of volleyball; past people having a picnic on a patch of grass above the lake. Finally, shortly before 7 p.m., I glimpse a faint outline of the Milwaukee skyline in the distance.

Approaching the Milwaukee city limits. (Click on photo to enlarge.)

Another mile or so, and I reach the city. Unfortunately, there’s no way to keep to the lakefront beyond the Cupertino neighborhood, as Interstate 794 monopolizes the waterfront for some two miles. Instead, trail signs guide me through local streets. Being on roads hardly matters, though, so revitalized am I to be so close to the end.

I snake through industrial neighborhoods, advancing up Bay St., then 1st St., then across the Water St. Bridge into the Historic Third Ward district. Around 7:30, I stop at the intersection of Water St. and Milwaukee Ave.

To my left, I spot a Borders bookstore sign beyond the Wisconsin Ave. Bridge. I recognize the sight.

I’m in downtown Milwaukee!

Yes, I’ve been here before. Only this time, I think with a mixture of joy and disbelief, I’ve arrived by bike.

Help the Animals. Please?

“Info to help the animals?” the girl in the green dress nudges passersby.

“Info to help the animals?”

Her voice is light and high-pitched, a gentle supplication among a cacophony of noise— el trains rumbling above, bus air brakes wheezing behind, cell phone conversations coming into and out of earshot.

“Info to help the animals?”

In a Runyonland-esque scene, they pass her left and right, go into the el station and out, get onto buses and off. Perhaps one out of every four takes one of her pamphlets, which outline cruel practices used in slaughterhouses. Of those that don’t, maybe only half acknowledge her.

The woman walking a little dog with poofy, white fur— she takes one. The man in the white, button-down shirt and black pants takes one, too, his lips turned into a tight smile. The man in the cowboy hat and the guy in a Pace suburban bus shirt do, as well.

The evening sky is slightly overcast, here in the thick of rush hour, as Jenny Lawson and three others ply the sea of passing commuters on Fullerton Ave. for receptive hands. A native of South Bend, Ind., Jenny has come to Chicago for the summer before her senior year of college at Earlham College. She’s taken on a three-month internship at Mercy for Animals, a vegan advocacy organization, where she works on a campaign to get Dunkin’ Donuts to offer soy milk.

“The most hundred-percent foolproof way of preventing suffering is by eliminating animal products from your diet,” she insists. “That’s basically what we really advocate.” Indeed, Jenny is herself vegan, though it's surprising to learn that while she grew up among cats and dogs, she didn’t live on a farm.

“Info to help the animals?”

Dong-dong. “Doors closing.”

A woman smiles slightly as she refuses a pamphlet. Another declines with barely a nod. A guy with a big, brown dog approaches with his hand up. “No solicitations, please,” he cuts in to her spiel (short spiel).

How does she deal with being ignored outright by some people? “Just suck it up,” she says with a laugh. “It’s not fun. I mean of course it doesn’t feel good, but it happens a lot, and I expect it.”

A man with a colorful T-shirt walks into the el station. “Oh, God,” Jenny remarks. “‘Too much pork for just one fork,’” she reads from his T-shirt.

“I’m not even gonna’ ask,” she giggles.

Jenny and Leslie, the other girl manning the sidewalk in front of the el station, occasionally walk over to a suitcase laid on the ground against a wall. There, they replenish their stock of pamphlets. The leafleting, as Leslie has called it on her meetup.com Vegan Chicago Web page, was called for 5:30 p.m.; it will end when all 200 pamphlets are gone.

“Chickens are kept in small cages about, maybe, like, six to seven birds on a size of a six-by-eleven piece of paper,” Jenny explains about some egg farms. “So, they’re all in there, and they debeak them— like, they cut off the tip of their beak— because chickens have, like, the pecking order to create a hierarchy, you know— like in the group of chickens. And so if they didn’t debeak them, they would kill each other.”

What about organic farms?

“I don’t think the words ‘humane’ and ‘slaughter’ go together. I think they’re kind of contradicting.”

They come and they go, here and there, heading up to Kimball or Linden Ave., over to Sheffield or Lincoln Ave., or perhaps down the street to Chicago’s Dog House, which sells 22 varieties of hot dogs, including smoked alligator.

How does Jenny keep her stamina up?

“I don’t know,” she laughs. Actually, she’s really tired.

“It just has to get done, so you just keep goin’.”

Another polite smile and wave in rejecting a pamphlet. Another squeal of bus brakes. And another plea— and yet another— to help the animals.

An Incredible Journey, Part III

The first time they met, Stewart was playing a gig in a pub. She liked his music— or maybe she liked him— enough to invite him to play at her 40th birthday party. He accepted.

At the end of the engagement, she told him she looked forward to having him play at her 80th birthday party.

Stewart found the comment odd, but he said nothing about it.

Some weeks later, she showed up in the audience at another gig. There, she presented him with an album of pictures from her party. Little captions accompanied the photos, along with her declaration from before: She looked forward to having him at her 80th birthday party.

Stewart found the photo album odd, too. But again, he said nothing.

Nearly two years went by. During that time, he saw her in the audience at a couple of performances, but he didn’t think much about it.

Then, in 2008, he was playing a gig in Hamburg when she showed up again. This time, she said she happened to be in town for a conference on Asperger syndrome, a disorder from which her son suffered.

After the performance, she asked him out to dinner. She was married, and in any case, he wasn’t interested in her that way. But he said yes. Said yes as one person being friendly to another.

A week later, the woman asked Stewart over dinner if he would be interested in accompanying her son to school. It would be a job; the woman hoped Stewart could keep her son on track with his studies.

He said he would think about it.

Three days after that, he got a call on his cell phone. It was the woman’s husband.

You called my son an idiot in public!, the man bellowed. You blabbed it in the pub! Stay away from my son and my wife!

Stewart was shocked. He had never done any such things.

He immediately called up the woman and told her he didn’t appreciate the nasty call from her husband. He added that he wasn’t interested in accompanying her son to school anymore, and that she should leave him alone.

A couple weeks later, Stewart played a private party in a small town. On his Web site, he listed the name of the town, but not the exact address.

Just the same, the woman showed up.

She asked him to come back to her hotel. She wanted to talk. She said she had gotten him his own room.

Stewart declined. He said that he wasn’t attracted to her, and in any case, since she was married, he wouldn’t do such a thing.

She pleaded with him— begged him— to come. Made a scene in front of everyone at the party. Eventually, he relented.

At the hotel, they sat in her room, talking. Talked about her life; her marriage, her son, her depression.

Stewart finally asked for his room key. The woman confessed that she hadn’t gotten him a room. Instead, they stayed in her room all night— again just talking.

A few days later, Stewart flew to the Dominican Republic. His cousin was getting married, and he was to play at the wedding.

After five days on the island, he visited the U.S. before returning to Germany. When he arrived in New Jersey, he turned on his cell phone to find his voice mail full and his phone filled with text messages. All of the messages were from the woman.

Stewart deleted them all.

He called the woman to tell her that he didn’t want to hear from her again. That if he did, he would call the police.

A minute later, he received another text message: “Stewart, I will kill you.”

Meanwhile, back in Germany, the woman had gotten off a plane from a trip of her own. An unusual entourage awaited her at the gangway: Her husband, mother, and father, and two police officers.

When she arrived, the officers took a look at her. Deciding she was okay, they then left.

Once they had walked around the corner, the woman swung at her 80-year-old mother. Her father intervened in time to prevent the blow.

When Stewart himself returned to Germany, he immediately headed to the airport police to file a complaint. When he explained the situation to an officer, the man laughed at him. You? Afraid of a woman?, he chortled.

The next few months went downhill from there.

The first lawyer Stewart consulted laughed at him, too. He tried another lawyer, but that one wouldn’t take the case, so he moved on to a third.

During that time, Stewart learned things, too. He learned that when the woman coincidentally showed up at the pub he was playing during the Asperger conference, it was no coincidence. She had tracked him down through the performance schedule on his Web site. She hadn’t come from a conference, either; she was staying at a pain clinic for supposed back pain (no doctor ever found anything wrong with her back) and took a 150-dollar taxi ride from there to the pub.

Stewart learned that the woman found his private party in that small town by, again, consulting his Web site, but this time— lacking an address— she combed the area until she heard live music.

Stewart also learned that, completely unbeknownst to him at the time, the woman had followed him to the Dominican Republic. After taking a 15-hour flight, she searched for him all over the island country. She went so far as to plaster in hotels “wanted” posters with a picture of him from her 40th birthday party.

When that didn’t work, she told the authorities that Stewart had stolen her purse. She said he was a drug courier. Told the police she wanted to ride with them so that she could be there while they performed a cavity search on him.

The police waiting for her at the airport in Germany? After a trip of her own? The trip was to the Dominican Republic, and it was the woman’s mother who summoned the police. By then, she knew of her daughter’s threat to kill him, and she wanted to press charges. She wanted Stewart to press charges, too.

Which he did.

His court date was set for October. In the weeks leading up to it, the woman’s husband called Stewart often, taunting him by saying, She means what she says! She says she wants to kill you; you better look out! You better stay away!

In the end, he did stay away— from the courtroom. While his lawyer showed up, Stewart didn’t want to give the woman the time of day, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him. His lawyer told the judge simply that Stewart was working then.

It turned out to be a strategic error. German law holds that when you file for a restraining order and don’t show up in court, you get a restraining order placed against you, too.

And so, from that day on, not only could the woman not go near him, but he also couldn’t go near her.

Not that that bothered him.

This past January, 17 years after flying to Germany for a four-month European vacation, Stewart returned to make his life once again in the U.S.

He left because of the woman, yes; of course. But it wasn’t just the woman. It was women— the lack of romance in his life in Germany. It was the physical sickness he had come to feel there. It was for a real estate venture back here that had gone sour when a worsening economy made for more tenants not paying rent. (He wanted to be here with his partner to unload the property.)

There is, unfortunately, one thing for which Stewart did not come back: His dad.

He passed away in 1994.

It can not be said here exactly where Stewart is living now— just as his last name can not be revealed— since that woman is still living freely in Germany. Suffice it to say that he got himself an apartment and continues to make new friends. Continues to date, too, hoping to find that special woman for more than friendship.

These days, Stuart shuttles back and forth between the U.S. and Germany, where he now only plays private parties, so that his whereabouts aren’t publicized. Oh, and he got a job teaching music here in the U.S., too.

A funny thing about how he got the teaching job: While touring the school where he was interviewing, he happened to cross paths with two teachers. “Stu!” they cried out when they spotted him.

The two women were former students of his at Banner Day Camp in Lake Forest.

Upon their recommendation, Stewart was hired on the spot.

There’s a line in “Forest Gump” that Stewart, now 49, thinks back to. “I don’t know if we each have a destiny,” says Gump, “or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both.”

Stewart thinks so, too.