Exit Chicago

Bittersweet. It may be clichéd, but that is the most accurate and appropriate word I can use to describe leaving my ‘life’ behind. Friends, family, my dog, work and the routine that I’ve known for the last 10 years in Chicago have made a greater impact on me than I could have ever imagined. While around others, deeper emotion ran at a stand-still and was seemingly non-existent. However, as I began saying my “see-you-laters” spanning a week of constant interaction and swarming with good times, great friends and tremendous support, it was the alone time at which the feelings began to cat burglar their way in. Stealthy and uninvited, for a self-proclaimed (and thoroughly convinced) stoic, it was almost a relief when the emotions began to swell inside me. It was as if the area behind my face was flooded with every possible feeling. Like a sponge that had been sitting in the desert sun then dropped into a bowl of water, it began absorbing and expanding until every inch of space was filled, leaving no room for air. Stuffy, tight and uncomfortable, but as necessary as a full-faced helmet in an Arizona sun.

Leaving Friends:
“HE’S LEAVING, LET’S THROW A PARTY!..” or five. You know who your true friends are when you are preparing to leave your normal, daily life behind for any extended period of time and they try to pickle you beforehand. The week…no two weeks prior to my departure were fantastically exhausting. I was wretchedly tired, red-eyed, mentally reduced to gravel and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Starting with one of Chicago’s best cover bands, Tributosaurus, I kicked off dos semanas of imbibing with Prince’s “Sexy Mother F@cker” gyrating its way out of Martyr’s sub-woofers. A most proper way to rev-up for the upcoming days. Finishing a stellar performance of a myriad of other Prince tunes, including my personal favorite “Darling Nikki,” the show left me hailing a cab with my soon-to-be ever-present sh!t-eating grin.

Following my last day of work on Friday night, friends who happen to be co-workers delivered me into the skillful hands of bartenders for perpetual cocktailing at a joint called the Emerald Loop. Arriving to find that the management had given our reservation away (even though confirmations had been made), we strategically placed ourselves in the most intrusive and obnoxious of places. As wait staff, bussers and servers slalomed through buzzed partners-in-crime to reach their tables, we talked, laughed and refused to let one man’s incompetence spoil our good time. On to the next bar(s).

Over the next few hours and next few days, I had the pleasure of visiting and revisting Chicago haunts such as: The Twisted Spoke (bikers welcome), The Brehon (where my Chi-town drinking career started), Kuma’s Corner (metal and burgers) as well as the Felts Microbrewery (soon to be known). Each night - a little heavier to lift than the last. Each morning - a little more unwelcome than the previous. My friends, you did it right. You are amazing. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Leaving Family:
Anti-climactic. It shouldn’t have been, but for the most-part, saying goodbye to my family was just that. It wasn’t until I began to write about it that a wave of emotion came rolling in. Despite their love, support and consistent encouragement, the farewell was surprisingly devoid of fanfare.

Perhaps it was because the night before I left my mind was consumed by thoughts of what-ifs, what haves and what needs. My mom, with husband Steve and sisters Emily and Alyssa, came for dinner from Evansville, WI. It’s a sleepy little Wisco town that boasted little more than 2,500 people when I moved there from Milwaukee in 1988. Now a thriving metropolis, at a population just over 4,000, Evansville has a stop light, a McDonalds, a mechanical bull, Nickelback in the jukebox and displays billboards at the edges of town proclaiming itself as the “Soybean Capital of Wisconsin,” and I love it.

Via some rather sage advice from my aunt, who splits time living in St. Louis and Chicago, we had a reservation at La Scarola. A quaint, yet always bustling Italian restaurant that is favored by celebrities and locals alike, La Scarola is a highly sought foodery. After a 45 minute, alcohol-free wait for a table (this is not the fault of the restaurant, my family is notoriously tardy for any appointment and there was no exception for our 5.30pm reservation on Valentine’s Day), we sat down and feasted upon the specials offered up by the kitchen. Dinner was delicious, as expected and the only thing filling me up more than the entrees was a healthy helping of tension and anxiety.

“No, I don’t possibly have room for dessert, but thank you.”

The night was filled with all the usual questions, answers, advice and caveats of caution. Back at my apartment, regrettably, I was noticeably preoccupied with preparations to leave the next morning at 5.30. This unfortunately pushed my family into hurriedly finishing their raspberry cheesecake brownies that my mom had brought with. Slurping down some remaining drops of coffee, they opened up their arms for the good-luck hugs. We said our “see you laters,” hugged, took the obligatory group photo and they walked out into the icy cold of a Chicago winter. A bitter cold that, in 10 short hours, I would be bidding a shit-eating grin farewell to as my plane taxied and took off from Chicago’s Midway airport.

Or perhaps it was because earlier in the week, I had driven from Chicago to Milwaukee to drop off my best friend of the past 5 years, Pete. Pete is a beautiful red and white boxer/lab mix and my constant, if not somewhat spoiled companion. “Shotgun Pete” wouldn’t be riding with me on the journey that is to come. Instead, he’ll be living with my dad’s family until I return to the Midwest. Through white-out conditions and the false sense of security often received while kicking in the four-wheel drive, I crawled up I-94 at a blinding pace of 35 miles an hour. Cars spun, swirled and crashed around me, but hey, I was from Wisconsin, this was nothing. After a grueling three and a half hour ride (ufdah), Pete and I arrived safely at my dad’s house…just in time for dinner. After grappling with common sense and the driving urge to get back to Chicago to finish up my last prep efforts, I arose at the decision (with the protective prodding from my family) to stay the night and avoid the rest of the blizzard. Point: common sense.

After watching Zombieland with my brothers, who’s appropriately repeated line of “time to nut up or shut up” hits home, I racked out on the couch with Pete beside me at about midnight-thirty and proceeded to get no sleep. 6.30am brings a buzzing from down the hall that sounds like an emphysemic car alarm, and a shuffling of feet. Sleep? Who needs sleep? I’ve got the energy of life to keep me going. Wrong. As my dad and step-mom get ready for work, I try to wrangle and corral any last wink that is within lasso shot, but in the end, I’m just holding my rope. Exhausted and half-asleep, we say our goodbyes as I barely rise from the couch. Perhaps the family goodbyes would have been more note-worthy if I had left the night before. My step-mom gives me a hug, some encouragement and requests for stories upon my return. I hug her back and say thank you. The attention, even in my immediate family, still leaves me uncomfortable and embarrassed. Dad strolls over, extends his hand and says “keep the shiny side up.” Simple, but with an underlying and unspoken sentiment that only the two of us can recognize. I give Pete a hug and leave. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Leaving Chicago:
Awakening at 5am, for a 7.35am flight out of Chicago’s midway airport, I nuke a cup of coffee and get ready. I had had a fairly restful nights’ sleep despite the repeated attempts of sabotage by my mind and being awoken to the sounds of my roommate and his girlfriend reuniting after a week apart. Good for them. I unplugged everything in my bedroom, closed the heat vent, turned off the light and locked the door and silently shut the door.

Lain out in a clinically methodical order (that only a project manager can love) on my coffee table was a duffle bag full of camp gear; a USMC Sea Bag filled with clothes, books, saddle bag liners and other items; a backpack full of my tech gear (netbook, camera, flip) and a very inconvenient camp pillow (it just didn’t fit anywhere, kind of like the eccentric Aunt that you have a hard time seating at a holiday dinner or a wedding). Stepping into my boots and sliding into my leather, I strapped on my backpack with helmet firmly attached. Slinging the duffle over my shoulder, the weight of the reality of what I was doing and the gear dug in, in an affirming pain. Picking up the sea bag, I bump and bumble my way out the door, lock up and take one last look at the darkened apartment. As I walk to the corner to hail a cab, it hits me again.

The cabbie pulls up as I drop my gear into the trunk, we exchange the only pleasantries possible at 5.30am. “Good morning. I’m going to Midway airport, please.” “Good morning sir, which way would you like me to take?” “LSD to 55, please.” I want to ride the lakefront and inhale the view of the Chicago skyline. It will be 6 months before I see it again. Today is Valentine’s Day and my only reminder of this most heinous of holidays is the top of the Chicago skyline illuminated in tones that would make Pepto Bismol nauseous. The city is asleep as we wind our way down Lake Shore Drive. We are the only ones on the road. The trip is quick and peaceful, a complete contrast to the environment that will be in an hour. Feeling as if I’m sneaking out of the city as I would tip-toe out of a girl’s apartment the morning after meeting her in a bar, the metamorphosis from the idea of this trip into a reality emerges. The realization of this manifests itself physically and an audible, involuntary rush of breath escapes me. I look at my hands to see if they are trembling, but astoundingly, they are not. Snaking around the turns and passing the pink neon that proclaims the Drake hotel, we glide between Lake Michigan and the Loop. The darkness pierced by and twinkling with the lights of Chicago’s corporate mountains give me pause. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Get ready for an adventure. Tomorrow I saddle up.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”