Walking the Lakefront
By Tim Egan
As you walk the cracked concrete along the ever-unpredictable Lake Michigan with buzzing by cars along Lake Shore Drive your mind starts to wonder
You have to ponder if this was the vision of Burnham or would be the muse for Algren’s crusty narrative
Your eyes glaze over the broken glass, discarded cans of some god-awful curse called White Claw and even the human waste
Your vigilance will be challenged by militant cyclists who peddle Mad Max style around walkers, runners and out of place out-of-towners
The faded painted pathways cannot guide those rude kamikazes, heart-attack avoiding runners and walkers that range from the heartbroken to the heart warmed
This urban gem is loved and abused, inspiring and depressing, breathtaking and strangling
The impression left is up to the individual and depends if the sunrise is one of beauty or despair
You will shiver in the battering cold and sweat bullets that sizzle when dropped to the pavement, all in the same Chicago week
It’s hell, frozen over and thawed back in a most beautiful form that an Iowan will never understand
For those who look up to Chicago’s jagged-bold, broad-shouldered skyline and don’t see a tilted fedora and trench coat, a butchered steer, a bathtub still, a green river, the greatest of sports heroes and unforgiving fans
If they can’t see heroes and villains who often are the same person, or business titans and musical geniuses, political kings and pawns, or an immigrant bleeding to feed a family
Well, they ain’t from Chicago
January 25, 2022
