Evanston or bust

Plus:
Photo gallery: See the sights of Western Ave without having to leave your chair.

I knew I was getting in over my head when the woman at Fleet Feet asked if I wanted to get any “technical underwear.” A wave of panic swept over me. Here I’d been impressed with myself for even thinking to get new shoes to wear on my little outing. Now my ass needs technology to survive the experience?

My plan was to walk all of Western Avenue, which, if you believe Wikipedia (you fool), is the longest non-highway street in the United States, at 27.3 miles. This is one of those things that sounds like a good idea when you volunteer, and then starts to seem like a terrible mistake as the day gets closer. Why would I do something that was almost certain to cause me bodily pain? But I’d talked it up in front of my coworkers, so I couldn’t chicken out.  

On the morning of Saturday, June 30, my roommate Leslie and her slightly concerned mother drove me down to 146th and Western, dropping me off in the suburb of Harvey at 8:30 am. I was equipped with cushy sneakers, a backpack containing sunscreen and a couple apples, a fancy wicking-fabric shirt, and a pair of uncommonly comfortable shorts. I clipped on a pedometer. “Pedometer,” I thought, “I am about to blow your mind.”

Starting out, there was no sidewalk, just a grassy shoulder. The houses looked rural, but there were trailers and car-parts shops sprinkled in to remind me that I was not that far from the big city. Soon enough, sidewalks and shops appeared. I stopped at Sweet Lil Me Me’s Bakery (11836 S Western Ave, 773-233-7230) because the sign on the door said Bean Pie, and even better, offered free samples. The woman behind the counter pulled an untouched pie from the display case and cut me a generous slice. Moist and sweet, it tasted like the best sweet potato pie I’d ever had. The main ingredient: navy beans. I’d only come about four miles, and already the trip was worth the bother. 

I passed through Beverly and poked my head into Optimo Fine Hats (10215 S Western Ave, 773-238-2999). When I told them I lived in Logan Square, a few eyebrows went up. I clarified that I was nonetheless a Sox fan, and was promptly invited to come in and take a look at the back room, where they still make hats the old-fashioned way.

By 92nd, as I sat in Original Rainbow Cone (9233 S Western Ave, 773-238-7075) enjoying the air conditioning and, naturally, a rainbow cone, I realized that I was getting tired of walking, just seven miles in. I was a quarter of the way, pooped, and bored. Not a great sign. Maybe I was feeling so listless because all I’d eaten was ice cream and free pie samples? Nah. Luckily, that’s when the cavalry arrived, in the form of calls from friends and coworkers looking to meet up with me on my travels. I headed north again with renewed vigor. Now I wasn’t just walking, I was going somewhere.

At 71st street, intrepid TOC art writer Lauren Weinberg and her boyfriend Kevin were waiting for me in a Subway sandwich shop that was noteworthy only for the ceiling-high bulletproof glass protecting the sandwich artist. Walking through that part of the South Side, we were a conspicuous group: 1.25 Jews (that would be Lauren and me) and an Irishman just a few years gone from County Cork. We got a few curious stares, but mostly folks just wanted to sell us used cars from any of the dozen of lots we walked past. The miles flew by pleasantly again. Having company makes all the difference, and it turns out that if you’re walking all day, you can catch up with a lot of folks. A big shout-out to Steve, Donna, T.C., Daisy the dog, Jason and Cassie for joining me at different points during my outing.

Coming up on Humboldt Park, I entered familiar territory, passing by friends’ houses (thanks for the sandwich, Donna!) and old haunts (Empty Bottle, we’re never apart for long). It was at mile 21, just past Fullerton, that my feet began to issue the occasional protest pang. It was like they had just realized that I was seriously going to keep walking. One of my left toes in particular seemed peeved. I was also finding that my backpack was causing pain across my shoulders. Easily fixed by wearing it on my front. I’d become used to getting weird looks. I soothed my pain by gobbling a mamey-and-milk popsicle from a paleta vendor I crossed paths with at Belmont.

Coming up through Lincoln Square and then along Rosehill Cemetery (Western Ave at W Berwyn Ave), a burning sensation spread across the bottoms of my feet. My eyes started to water from the pain, but since I didn’t seem to be actually damaging any part of my body, I ignored it. I had figured, foolishly, to finish in nine hours. My math was as follows: 3 miles an hour for 27 miles = 9 hours. A pretty bad estimate, it turned out. I came up on Howard, where Chicago ends and Western Ave turns into Asbury Ave, just before 8:30pm, 12 hours after starting my little stroll. I got on the Western bus to go home, and you better believe I was one of those goobers who puts their feet up on the seat next to them.

The next day, the cranky toe had turned deep purple under the toenail, and my hips felt achy and old. It took longer than I thought it would, and that last few miles hurt like hell. But I'm glad I did it. I originally volunteered for this stunt on a lark, thinking that it would be something to brag about later. But now that it's done, I feel like I got a lot more than bragging rights. I checked my pedometer: 59,157 steps. Walking the length of Chicago gave me a stronger sense of belonging here. It's my home, yes, and has been for a decade—but now it feels like my hometown.