February 18, 2007

I was composing this post in my head on the way to a cross country ski trip yesterday morning. I had a topic in mind, but now I may have to save that for another time--the trip was eventful unto itself. I had planned to try out a new ski locale, Deer Grove Forest Preserve, northwestern Cook County, but wound up where I always do: Moraine Hills State Park near Island Lake, Ill. It was still snowing when I departed Chicago. By the time I arrived at Moraine Hills, it had begun to clear. I strapped on my new pair of skis and charged off from the Pike Marsh parking area. I thought I was Bjorn Dahle somewhere in Lapland. Snow conditions were great, and the skies were blue when I reached the three-mile mark. Here I began to feel extreme pain on both heels. It felt like a dull knife was sawing at my Achilles tendons. The perils of a fresh pair of boots can rear up for both hikers and skiers, apparently. I had to push on, though, as I was at least three miles from my car. I considered catching a ride from someone but decided to forge forth. Every stride required the Achilles incisions to continue. I tried to ski flat-footed which is as absurd as a giraffe on roller skates. My stamina was OK, but the pain in the heels persisted. I was picturing a pathetic airlift out of exurbia. I slowed my pace and took advantage of glides and long downhills. I was relieved when I got to the car after a total of more than seven miles.

The adventure wasn't over, though. On the way back from Moraine Hills, I took I-94 south toward Chicago. At the Lake-Cook toll plaza, my driver's side front tire went flat. I struggled to a gas station. There I borrowed a lug wrench from an employee, but it didn't fit properly. I finally called for roadside assistance. The tow truck driver broke his lug wrench in addressing the issue. Running out of options, he towed me to "the only place that I know is open nearby." Now, I broke down in Northbrook, which is located in a heavily commercial area of the north suburbs. The driver suggested we head 15 miles back north to Mundelein so the tire could be replaced. I decided to go along with it, but as soon as we got back on the expressway we passed a National Tire & Battery. I kept it to myself. We wound up in a low-slung industrial park. He directed me into a cramped waiting room. Inside there were two six packs of some sort of Bacardi malt liquor beverage and a six pack of Heineken. Someone walked in the door and cracked open a cold one. I sighted at least five men wandering around and one other would-be customer. The workers grumbled a few words in Russian to each other, and the tow truck driver went off somewhere else for a smoke and conversation. The tone of the setting was drug deal about to go bad. The driver eventually did unload the car, and the mechanic was friendly enough. And the bill was palatable. By the time I made it home, the blisters on my heels were just another detail of an eventful day.