Mile-High Walk Part 3 - Sunrise in Green

[Disclaimer: Many of the photos in this post look bad not because they were taken with a potato, but because they were taken BY a potato.  And in low-light.  And most were video screen caps.]

Frontier Airlines has one gate to one destination at IND, and this morning, it was packed.

I completely forgot it was 5:30 in the morning; the lively group that surrounded me was talking excitedly, checking a few last things off on their phones, and gathering their stuff before boarding.  Slowly, the blob of passengers self-corrected into a real line, and as I found my place in it, I looked around at my fellow budget-friendly flyers.

When I booked my ticket on Frontier, I made an assumption about their target market and the travel preferences of that market.  I figured someone like me was who they were aiming for; young, budget-conscious, willing to be severely inconvenienced to save a few bucks, no-frills.  The paid services Frontier offered while I reserved my ticket would be hilariously lofty costs, just something to click “no, thank you” on while booking my thrifty ticket.

But I was in the minority. 

People of all kinds surrounded me.  Businessmen, families with lots of kids and expensive carry-ons, couples traveling together, as well as a handful of solo travelers like myself.  It’s clear, though, that for most everyone getting on that plane, Denver was not going to be their final destination.  Frontier was one part of their trip, and getting to Denver was just the first step. 

People had their $5 boarding passes printed off and clasped in one hand, and the vouchers for their paid-for carry-ons in the other.  For these people, the low-cost-carrier model was not only attractive, they made it work for them.  I was certain I’d be one of dozens of airline bums looking for a cheap leg, skimping on everything but the bare minimum, and I was flat wrong.  People really had purchased their tickets à la carte, choosing what they wanted and forgoing what they didn’t.  Many weren’t just willing to brave the airline for the low-cost, it fulfilled their specific, customized need.  Maybe Frontier and other low-cost-carriers wouldn’t be all bad.

Well, maybe we shouldn’t be so rosy.  We’re not on the plane just yet. 

The plane’s takeoff time was set at 6:05 AM.  Normally, boarding is supposed to commence 30 minutes before then, but I can’t remember the last time this actually happened.  Usually, though, if it’s fifteen minutes before pushback and we’re not boarding, I get suspicious.

Frontier decided to test my limits.  

Boarding began exactly fifteen minutes before departure, but despite the delay, it was neat and orderly.  Well, mostly; one fellow at the beginning of the line wasn’t able to bring his clearly-oversized bag onto the plane and he threw a bit of a fit, but hey, that’s what you get when you think Frontier is like everyone else.  That ticket’s cheap for a reason, hombre.

At 5:54, I walked onto the jetway, and three minutes later, I was seated in 9F, forward of the engine on the starboard side of the plane.

So one of the most quantifiable ways to determine the quality of your seat and the airline at large is the seat pitch, i.e. how much room is between the back of your seat and the same spot on the seatback in front of you. 

Mine was 32”, which these days, is on the high end of the economy size, with some airlines having as little as 28” from seat to seat.  I may have been one of the lucky ones, as 28” and 29” seats comprised most of the seats on the flight.  I’m 6’2”, so 32” actually gives me perhaps an inch of wiggle.  Not bad for 61 big ones.

Admittedly, this is probably a slightly inflated number.  The seatbacks can be (and were) skinnier, and the pockets were emptier, which help effectively improve real legroom.  They definitely leveraged the seatback pocket.  Take a look inside.

Ignoring my crunchy oat bar wrapper, the seatback had nothing in it except the government-mandated safety placard.  No magazine, no SkyMall, no chilled Evian bottle.  What a rip, right?

That’s a shrimpy tray table, too, so named because it could hold exactly one shrimp.  Which would probably cost you $14.00 plus tax on Frontier.  But really, what’s it going to hold?  No drink, no magazine.  Big enough to basically write a check, which can be used for purchases onboard for a small service charge of $47.00.  Nah, I’m just joking.  But still.  This was a short flight, mostly in the dark, so I wouldn’t need much to entertain myself.

The Frontier cabin crew was all business, getting passangers in their seats and putting away their bags.  They were pleasant, though not what I’d call “bubbly.”  While on many airlines, both full-service and budget, I’ve seen flight attendants as companions to the flying experience.  Here, the cabin crew was doing what they were hired to do: their job.  That’s okay; again, it’s just a  different experience. 

Much to my surprise, I felt the plane lurch back from the gate just three minutes behind schedule at 6:08.  The safety demonstration commenced, which was delivered by-the-book with the exception of the name they gave their aircraft: Courtney the Cougar.  Apparently, Frontier names each of their planes after a specific animal, a frontier animal, I suppose, and gives each a unique livery to represent them.  After the cabin crew concluded the safety demo, the captain came over the PA with a brief announcement, indicating that the flight time was about two hours and twenty six minutes, which would put us in around sunrise, just like I’d planned. 

Southwest took up the areas of Concourse B that extended beyond the Frontier gate, but even they hadn’t really woken up yet.  This was good, though; we taxied out to the runway all by ourselves, unencumbered by traffic or sunlight.  We taxied north, aiming for 23R for our take-off run, eight minutes after pushback.  Leaving early in the morning has its benefits.

Love that engine roar on takeoff!  The sound of the engine is considerably different depending on where you’re sitting.  In this position, though, I can hear the full power of this CFM International 56.  And look, there’s Courtney the Cougar, featured on the winglet!

Normally, my seat’s either on the wing or behind it, and most often that means I’m aft of the engine, mostly because seats this far forward on mainline airlines are economy plus, business, or first class.  On Frontier, there’s no such thing, so these normally unavailable locations are prime spots to watch the flight.

Our climb was easy and smooth, and about twenty minutes later, we’d reached our cruising altitude somewhere over central Illinois.  The sky was clear, and below us, a swath of black rolled by as we soared over the quiet, sparsely populated Midwest.

I fidgeted in my seat a bit.  My neighbors, a couple perhaps in their late 30’s, early 40’s, had drifted off to sleep against each other.  I can attest that that seemed more comfortable than propping oneself against the seat.

The seats had been the most intimate part of my Frontier experience so far.  They are rigid, thin, and notably immobile, without any recline potential at all.  They’re highly reminiscent of the free-standing seats we have on our public TARC buses in Louisville, bolted to the ground lest someone take them for their “luxurious” cushions.  Even just thirty minutes in this seat and I can feel the hard plastic beneath my Holiday-Inn-Pillow for a cushion.  To be honest, I’d taken for granted how reasonably a typical airline seat supported my tuchus, but now I was quite aware.

With the din of the airplane’s engine roaring beside me, the darkness outside, the lights low in the cabin, and without the possibility of video entertainment, a beverage service, or an airline crossword puzzle, there really wasn’t much to do.  Sleep sounded more and more appealing, and my subconscious agreed.  I clumsily supported my head on my hand, propped my elbow against the cabin wall, and closed my eyes.

I didn’t really get to sleep.  It was one of those kinds of half-naps where every few, immeasurable moments, you silently ask yourself “did I actually fall asleep for a second?”  A chime, either real or imagined, stirred me from whichever I was doing at the moment.  I felt a tiny bit more rested, so I must have gotten something.  I was also a bit hungry.  I reached into my stuffed camera bag, relieving it of another nutrition bar.  I munched in the darkness, thinking about nothing in particular.  Once I finished my bar, I looked over my right shoulder onto the wing.

That faint glow in the distance would follow us abnormally long as we soared due west across the Great Plains.  As such, it was hard to tell what time it was.  My phone, which I’d already shifted back two hours to Mountain Time, indicated it was 5:25 AM.  It must be 6:25 where we were, so the first moments of dawn made sense.  We still wouldn’t be on the ground for at least an hour, though.  After snapping some low-light photos, I decided to do the sleep/sort-of-sleep thing for a bit longer.

The sun really was coming up now, and at just before 6 AM Denver time, that’d mean we would be on the ground in about half an hour. 

I looked around the twilight of the cabin.  Most of the passengers were slouched over, trying to get a bit of sleep before what would likely be the continuation of a very long day.  Some had their headphones on, their face buried in their glowing devices.  Some were talking to each other quietly, much like you would to a neighbor on the bus.  Which is fair, because that’s basically what this was.  Not complaining, just observing.

I looked outside again, this time down at the earth below us, which was steadily and methodically approaching.  Moreover, I’m not sure we’d started our descent yet.

If I can geek out for a second, I’ve flown from my hometown to Denver several times…on my flight simulator.  I even did this exact flight I’m on from Indianapolis, in a Frontier A321 and everything, simulating the time, weather, and time of year before flying it in real life.  One thing that’s amusing, and admittedly unique, about flying from here to Denver is the subtle, yet drastic elevation change.

Denver is the Mile High City, and not just figuratively.  One place we’ll be visiting on our walk is exactly one mile above sea level.  Louisville and Indianapolis both are below a thousand feet, so when you fly to Denver, you effectively go up thirty-thousand feet and come down twenty-six thousand.  As you make your descent, the Great Plains slope up with you, and before you know it, you’re at ground level.  Unlike landing amongst mountains and huge topographical features, though, you’re landing in a “flatter” part of the world, so it can be quite disorienting as you check your altimeter and see that your current altitude of eight thousand feet doesn’t seem that high.

Denver is at the crossroads of two geographical regions: the High Plains and the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.  To one side, it’s farmlands for hundreds of miles.  To the other, the broad range of the Rockies sprawls out into the distance.

Based on our location and approach, we’re coming into Denver from the north, and perhaps on the western side of the airport.  That means we won’t see the airport as we land, but it also means we could land on 16R, the longest commercial runway in North America; it’s over three miles long!  Not sure this little Airbus needs that, but it’d be a fun bit of trivia. 

A smooth landing on neighboring 16R and we were on the ground and on our way to the gate.

Denver’s airport is the largest commercial airport in the country by area, so even an on-time landing might mean several minutes in taxiing. 

As I snapped away with my DSLR in one hand and worked my GoPro with the other, my now-awake neighbors asked me about the two cameras pressed up against the plastic windows.  I told them about my walking plans, much like I had with Truck Show a year and a half earlier on my way to MDW.  Sadly, they were more interested in getting off the plane.  Home for them was in Phoenix, one more connection away, and they had to buy this ticket in a hurry, from what I gathered.  They’d had quite a poor experience with Frontier, though they didn’t expand on what exactly.  I’m not sure if it was just the experience from when they boarded to now, or if it stretched back before that to problems with their ticket, their luggage, or making the reservation.  Either way, they agreed they’d never fly Frontier again. 

I packed up my cameras as we hooked a left to get to our gate, A46.  The chime dinged, we unbuckled, and we filed onto the jetway and into the terminal in groggy silence. 

Standing here at my destination, looking around at the familiar terminal signage and architecture of DEN, it became clear to me that Frontier had done its job for me.  My experience with them so far had been brief, and I had only spoken with one of their employees to thank them for scanning my ticket, but that was all I needed.  I walked over to the window besides gate A46, looking out at the plane that got us here, its livery more apparent in the dawn.

Oops.

Let’s face it; the experience of flying, even during my short life, used to be filled with luxury, vogue, character, and elegance.  But we don’t live in that world anymore.  Getting on a plane does not necessarily mean you’ll get the star treatment.  In fact, it never means that.  Frontier Airlines has made a name for itself on its current business model, and, given this single, narrow, one-time experience, it’s worked like a charm.  I acknowledge the obvious limitations of the application of my experience broadly, and eighteen hours from now, we’ll see if the return flight is quite so seamless.  But, from where I stand right now, this was a fine experience.  If you don’t think of it as an airline as much as a bus service that looks a lot like an airline, you’ll do much better.  If you’re able to change your mindset going in, you can check your expectations at the gate.

Next week, we’ll walk through each of Denver’s three concourses, its main terminal, and take the train from the airport to downtown Denver, where our main walk can truly begin!

Until then, keep going!

Walking the Windy City - Part 3

This is the third part of a nine-part series.  Click here for the first two.  [1] [2]

The bus rolled away down 61^st Street, and the morning grew quiet.  Here was the beginning of the day’s walk, with sixteen miles of adventure ahead.  As I looked up at the street sign, I heard a starter’s pistol go off in my head.

The wind was silent, too, rustling the back of my thin hoodie with its icy breath.  I exhaled, and a cloud of warm vapor mingled with the crisp air.  Time to go!

Directly across the street, a modern, blockish building was painted a bright gray by the morning.  From the outside, I’d say it’s upper class student housing, but I was admittedly going into this portion of the walk a little blind. 

My original plan had been to start from the Museum of Science and Industry, a Chicagoan landmark, about three miles east of here, near the lakeshore.  However, due to the potential for a lack of variety in scenery, I decided to head inland a bit.  The college features several architecturally significant buildings, but its main library, the Regenstein Library, provided a nifty architectural centerpiece, with its post-brutalist concrete design.  A couple months ago, a fellow photographer had featured it on their blog, and I knew I was going to Chicago by then, so this felt like the right choice.

The University of Louisville, where I’m currently in the last weeks of my business graduate degree, is a treasure trove of dated, brutalist structures with harsh angles and textures and innovative placement of architectural design elements.  Based on the modernity of this first building, though, it might be the exception.  I leisurely crossed the first intersection and turned north.

About halfway down the block, my stomach roared.  Truly roared.  I had rationed three protein bars for the walk, and it sounds like it was time for the first one.  I got an assortment of them; one was a particularly high protein-count bar, one was an all-natural bar, and the other was a normal, have-every-morning bar.  I decided to eat the big one first, and it was right tasty and surprisingly filling for basically being an unsweetened Three Musketeers for meatheads.  I stowed the wrapper and came to the center court  of the first building and its neighbor.

This trendy compilation of chain fast food and casual dining outlets was designed to serve the most well-placed students.  The fact that it was so quiet at 9:00 in the morning means two things: it’s a commuter school or it’s a Saturday morning and they are college students who wouldn’t get out of bed that early if the place was burning down.  No judgment: I did the same thing, too.

At the end of the block, the Midway Plaisance spread out; the Plaisance, probably from the French word plaisir, meaning to make happy or please, was an expanse of grassy fields and bushes.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a park, as there were still significant roads that cut through the paths every hundred feet or so.  I skipped across 60^th and took a right.

No one said March was going to be the prettiest time of year to come; it’d probably be several weeks still until the grass would grow and the trees would bloom, especially if the below-freezing temperatures I was feeling now lingered for any amount of time.  I crisscrossed through the official and unofficial paths wrought in the dirt, and found my way back over to 60^th Street, mainly for the architecture it featured.

This glass-walled facility, veiled behind an iron fence, was particularly unusual.  I love wall windows like that, so I’m sure it was quite a view from up there.  Goodness knows there were probably some law students up and about at this hour, reading through case history, texting their BFFs, and looking oddly out at the hooded guy leaning through the fence gaps to get a good shot.

A lawn care worker nearby was walking to his truck; he looked like he’d been working for hours, but he greeted me warmly all the same.

I was already off my prescribed path, but I knew that’d happen.  As long as I found the street I needed on the north side of the campus, we’d be fine.  I took Woodlawn north across the Plaisance, and I heard music to my left.  What looked an outdoor swimming pool, clearly in disuse, had speakers blaring some Motown hits.  I heard a Temptations number ring out and, in transit, it changed to an old Police song.  Once on the other side, I could get a closer look at the huge cathedral that had been visible the moment I cleared the first corner.

It had a manufactured newness to it, similar to the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., if you’ve ever been there.  A bit of investigation turned up that it was younger than my grandfather: 1928 was the year on it.  I’d wager there was a revival in this style at that time, as there are several Louisville buildings that have this grand, gothic style like cathedrals of Europe.  One particular example is one of our most impressive old churches, but it does admittedly look a bit out of place across the street from an equally famous greasy spoon, Dizzy Whizz. 

A bit farther up the road, though, I got a real treat.

This handsome and contemporary façade contains the Booth School of Business, one of the best business schools in the country.  U of L, my soon-to-be alma mater, is up there, too, but Booth is an undisputed heavyweight.  Most people know where the Booth School is without tying it to the parent university. 

Either way, the building in which the school is housed is quite dashing, maintaining the fresh, contemporary look of the rest of the campus.  I wish I had a minute to walk through and size up my competition, but we’ve got to keep moving.  At the end of the road, I took a left towards the main quad, where’d I’d turn right and find the library across campus.

On the way, I passed another handsome, well-kept institute; this is the economics wing of the school, and that campanile is enormous!  I’m not sure why an economics building needs a bell tower, but that didn’t slow U of C down.  The tower is not solid; each of its four sides are mostly unwalled, providing a neat effect as you look up from the ground, looking through the tower’s bones to the other side.  I’d walked about a mile, so it wouldn’t be chiming for a while. 

The quadrangle was, like the rest of the school, impeccable.  New and old buildings lined the grassy square, and each sidewalk had permanent and temporary barriers preventing cars from going up onto the quad.

As was the rest of the university, a variety of colliding architectures mashed shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the common area.  There were a couple students out here reading, even despite the chilly temperatures.  I turned right at the circle in the middle and followed the wide path north again.

I didn’t really feel like I was an institute of learning; I felt like I was in some rich guy’s estate, an interloper wandering about looking for a spot of food or warmth.  Under the stone arches I went to the older buildings of the campus and, soon, to the library that drew me here in the first place.

This looked positively Elizabethan; I think it was probably the covered walkway, but I could just about here the lute and lyre strumming away as period actors walked along its length.  Dried ivy tendrils crawled up the sides and along the base of the building, hinting that soon each building would be delightfully overgrown.

Through the Hull Gate ahead, and there we are!

In stark contrast to the century old stylings I just saw, the brutalist Regenstein Library was a severe behemoth. 

It was tall and very wide.  I couldn’t fit it all in the shot, even at a distance.  The library was older than I thought; built in the late sixties, its smooth appearance is owed to the limestone that comprises it.  That’s right, it wasn’t concrete after all; it was made as the same stuff as the Great Pyramids (after a fashion.)  It had that look all the same, though, and even now, you probably could have fooled me.

The lobby, visible from the courtyard, enticed me inside, but I couldn’t spare too long.  Moreover, I frankly felt underdressed.  Maybe it would just be for students, anyway. Regardless, looking west, I saw something I hadn’t expected, and I decided to make time for it.

This earthbound spaceship was another library, distinct from its neighbor.  It was much smaller than the Regenstein, too; perhaps 20 feet off the ground at its apex, and as I walked around its elliptical shape, I’d say it was maybe 200 feet on its longest side.  It really did look like a spaceship, and I was tempted to approach the edge to peer inside.  The kid in me wanted to climb the outside like a sand dune, but there plenty of signs to dissuade me and drunken college kids from doing so. 

As I walked around its periphery, I realized that it looked familiar.  I glanced in, seeing stacks of books and an array of meticulously organized chairs, tables, and workstations.  Have I seen this before? 

You know, the book series (and, inevitably, the movie series) was set and shot in Chicago.  There was one particular scene in the movie where the Erudite faction (the smarty pants of post-apocalyptic Chi-town) are seen reading, studying, and looking at complex math equations in sharply dressed uniforms.  They appear to be in a glass dome, and there is a minimalist feel to the scene. 

It was actually a pretty good movie, all said and done, but I instantly thought of this building the moment I could see inside. 

A bit of research confirmed my hunch; the shot this scene right here!

So the next question is: how do you get in there?  There were emergency exits built into the glass panels (which would probably be pretty cool to come scrambling out of), but I didn’t see a proper entrance.  I guess you come in it from the bottom, maybe through a tunnel from the Regenstein. 

This is all pretty awesome; wish I went to school here.

North of the libraries, a couple new dorm buildings stood quietly, their occupants still sound asleep from a night of…studying.

Man, even the gym is interesting to look at!  What a campus, huh?  As if on cue, a couple German-accented bikers rolled past me, discussing something just out of comprehension.  I banked right at 55^th Street, planning to connect back with University Avenue, which I’d take northeast for a while.

After finally getting a lull from the beautiful campus I’d just traversed, my beautiful wife gave me a call to check on me, and all was well. 

North on University, and I was in another university before I knew it.

What a funny looking seminary building.  The first comparison I could think of?  The underside of a Portobello mushroom; yeah, not the best way to describe a building, but that’s what it looked like.  The arcade at the base of the buildings led to a pleasant courtyard area, with classes, administration, and the library all seemingly confined within this bizarre, vehemently rectangular structure.  Valparaiso, near Gary, Indiana, sometimes gets into the NCAA basketball tournament, but besides that, I knew little about them.  I certainly didn’t expect them to have a Lutheran school.  Turns out they are, in fact, the Lutheran school, with the largest enrollment of any Lutheran-affiliated institution in the country.

Past here, the college campuses ended, and the residential neighborhood of Hyde Park replaced it.  Truly a beautiful campus, but I still like variety.

The townhouses were well-maintained, putting even some of Louisville’s nicest historic neighborhoods to shame.  People of all backgrounds went in and out of them, all off to start their day.  In Louisville, I’d be halfway out of the county as far as I was from downtown, but here, this was truly urban. 

Most of the homes were classic, red brick, and even the surrounding, non-residential buildings strove to match.

Up ahead, a foreign-looking chimney spewed smoke (or steam, perhaps) as the furnace beneath it warmed its keep.  At intersection of Hyde Park and University, and the synagogue that owned the chimney came into full view.  A dog leg onto Woodlawn again, then north along its length.

One of the larger residences I came across had an interesting, albeit primitive, security system.  Each fence section supported a small, silver bell that, when the adjoining gate opened, most likely made a sound as the whole fence vibrated, announcing that someone was home.  At least that’s what I assume the function was.  I waited for a moment, curious if someone would leave or arrive to test my theory. 

Right up the street, a Frank-Lloyd-Wright-ish house popped up to the left. Although admittedly a bit bland for his style, it reminded me of the great architect nonetheless.  I couldn’t tell what the large statue in the lawn was, whether it was an anchor, a breakwater block, or simply an oversized jack (as in “ball and jacks.”)  Maybe this was Truck Show’s/John’s house?

There’s a mosque, just four blocks from a synagogue.  How ‘bout that?  Chicago is certainly a diverse place; the largest mosque (or, as they often call them, “Islamic centers”,) I know of in Louisville is a repurposed residence, smaller than every townhouse I’ve passed today.  Even this one, purpose-built and on a prominent corner, is still quite compact.  All the same, mosques are places of prayer, contemplation, and worship, and you don’t need much space to do that.  Christians have enormous facilities of worships, with even small congregations investing heavily in building a huge temple to God.  Muslims, however, have a different perspective, and I appreciate that.

A quick jaunt across the street, and I was about seven blocks from my next major turn.

More townhouses lined Woodlawn Ave as the walk continued.  One particular one had an owner whose dog sat on the stoop outside the front door.  As I passed by, he ran up to the fence, barking and wagging his tail wildly.

Cute little guy; I love sleek dogs like that, and friendly ones, too.  Maybe the owner wouldn’t mind if he walked with me the rest of the way?  He had the energy for it, that much was clear.

Over the top of a local store, I could see the towering peak of Willis Tower, still several miles away.  It would likely be the lighthouse by which I’d guide my walk when I got lost or simply needed a frame of reference for distance. I’d get there a little bit over halfway through my walk, so it’d also let me get a good judge on how I was holding up, and how well I was using my time.

I knew my turn was coming up, so I started moving east at each block, ready to intercept 43^rd Street.

As I crossed over Lake Park Avenue at 44^th Street, I passed a woman engaged in a somewhat unusual chant.  I heard “God” and “strength,” and after I passed by, I wheeled around to get a better listen.  She was reciting a prayer, but not as if she was praying at that moment.  Rather, I think she was rehearsing.  Perhaps she was on her way to church or Bible study, and she would be giving the opening prayer.  Maybe she was off to a wedding or funeral?  Either way, I’m sure she’d do great.  Three different faiths, all represented within a mile of one another.  Chicago really is a diverse place.

I turned up Oakenwald Ave, the last street before marching to the lakefront, and it was smattering of houses in all states and conditions. 

On one lot, a well-build and well-maintained single residence sported many colors, while another lot had a condemned husk darkening its acreage.  Still others were flanked by vacant lots where homes once stood.

This lot held two houses, it seems; on the right, the basement lies somewhat intact, the foundational borders just barely visible.  To the left, another house has been gone for much longer, perhaps more intentionally demolished and removed. 

Another few steps and here I was.  43^rd Street.  My directions told me to turn right and take the stairs, but this was very clearly a dead end.  A train track lay before me, surrounded by a gravel path and an old, abandoned warehouse with a sketchy-looking van parked out front.  I checked my directions again, but I sure didn’t see any stairs.

I considered abandoning the directions and continuing north; I could see the Willis Tower after all, and that could be my guide.  But it was bright and sunny; surely I could safely investigate the murder warehouse.

My sneakers crunched on the gravel lot, camera still in hand, checking around corners to see if I saw what I wanted to see (stairs) or something I didn’t want to see (literally anything else.)  The van was empty, which was a bit of a relief.  I rounded the hood and – oh!

Although glaringly obvious in the photo, the stairway blended in with its surrounding in such a way, with no signage indicating its existence or destination, that I totally overlooked it.  I clamored up the stairs to the bridge deck above.

The deck was in poor repair; no doubt decades of exposure and incessant vibration from passing trains had fractured the stone comprising it.  Still, looked safe enough.

It was already looking closer; well, that’s what I told myself.  I’d been on the road for just about an hour, but I’d already seen so much; today was shaping up to be a walk for the ages!

Come back next week for part four, and until then, keep going!

- Matt

Kicking it Old School - From CAL to CAL - Part 3

This is the third part of this journey.  For part one, click here, and for part two, click here.

Hurstbourne Lane, at one time or another, has been called the busiest surface street in Kentucky.  It’s in competition with another road in southern Lexington which, when I’ve been on it, has earned its reputation well as a logjam of stoplights, university traffic, and invisible turn signals.  Hurstbourne is much wider, but it’s still the main drag for this part of town, leading to everything to strip malls, grocery stores, large subdivisions, and endless office parks.  Today, though, it was quiet enough I could cross and snap a shot.

Just twenty steps to the middle, then twenty to the other side.

This side street, technically. is a no outlet street.  The joy of being on foot, though, means that you can go where a motorized vehicle can't, so I'm actually planning to shave off a bit by defying the sign.  Let's test it.

The road was lined with well-manicured lawns and several large homes, but soon, these plots gave way to closely-bound townhouses.  On either side, these townhouses generally bore the college flag they preferred. 

For those of you outside of Kentucky, college ball is a huge deal here.  Because we don't have any pro teams in Kentucky, we latch on to our admittedly very successful college ball teams instead.  The red, flapping cardinal head indicated University of Louisville (we call them U of L), and the blue University of Kentucky flags bear the two letters used to identify them (UK, never U of K, for some reason.)   There was about an even split of 'em.  Myself, I was a UK fan all through going up (like my dad), but became a U of L fan when I stated going there myself (who my mother cheers for.)  My sister doesn't care, so we pretty perfectly represent the Kentuckian sports gamut. 

Under a house that hailed no public allegiance, I saw this little sheepdog (?) guy batting at the plate glass door.

This little fellow was batting at the door, causing the plate glass to wobble with each swipe.  He seemed to be calling out, too, but I couldn't hear him.  Or her, I guess.  That admittedly sounded much more ominous then I intended; I'm sure little Fluffy is just fine.

"End of the line, everybody off!"

Not me.

#rebel

A cloister of quiet office buildings rested alongside the prefab homes.  Amedisys, one of this building's tenants, isn't a company I've heard of, but the home health services space is a popular one.  Before I got my full-time position out of college, I interviewed at such a place.  Their small, well-differentiated and, well, uninteresting to must 22-year-olds.

A quick turn at the end of the drive put me on Whittington Parkway, which circles around to meet Shelbyville Road, the East End's main drag, the one I bypassed.  Turns out if you want to cross between the East End and anywhere close to downtown, this is the most economical way to do it.

Speaking of old jobs, this was the corporate headquarters for the first place I had full-time employment.  I was only ever here once, for my original orientation, and we had a training session across the street once.  Most of the time I sat in my cubicle though and punched in and out like any good corporate lackey.

...and here's the building where the temp agency was based where I became the lackey.

I passed a typing exam in there; 78 words a minute, and 75 was the minimum.  Didn’t know how to use the numpad then, but now I do.  123456789987654321.

Isn’t this convenient?  I wish my work had an off-ramp directly from the main drag; I’d get to work three minutes faster every day.  When you’re considered late after clocking in five minutes late enough times, you’ll know how it feels.

And here it is, Shelbyville Road.  As US 60, it goes all the way to Virginia Beach, hundreds of miles east of here.  I remember when my dad told me that in my youth, I couldn’t believe that Shelbyville Road (as I saw it), could be that long; it seemed impossible.  Now I know that, in theory, roads can stretch for as long as you’ve got land to put ‘em on, and even then, sometimes there’s a tunnel or a bridge to keep it going.

The length of Shelbyville Road would be my home for the next hour.  As it seems to be with most walks I undertake, there is a particular stretch that is long, unbroken, and necessary to facilitate the journey’s more complex and time-consuming interactions down the road.  This marked the halfway mark for me, and the road would carry me for a spell before I hooked a left.

Seems like I’m not the only one to walk this way.  Benches and sidewalk furnishing are something you never notice while you roar down the road.  Even though I’ve driven Shelbyville probably a thousand times, I could never have told you there was a bench here, or frankly, that there was even a sidewalk there.  After a good eight or nine miles on my feet, I was tempted to stop, but I knew that the sit at the finish line would be all the more rewarding. 

Hurstbourne Baptist Church, up ahead on my left, is a bizarre bit of architecture.  Unlike traditional churches, it’s build in the style of the Doge’s Palace in Venice, with its prominent arcade area that surrounds the main, square building.  It looks totally different externally, with different colors, patterns, and about a six-century age difference.  Still, when I first saw a picture of the Doge’s Palace as a kid (admittedly in a video game,) I recognized the homage the next time I rode by.

And, appropriately, there’s a gate on the other side.  As the gate doesn’t have a road leading up to it, I might venture a guess that it is the original “Hurstbourne” estate entrance, built in the 19^th century, perhaps.  Unadorned and, apparently, undocumented, I took a moment to consider this bit of history.  Someone has to know what it’s from or they’d have bulldozed it decades ago. 

Similarly, this historic house has been left abandoned alongside its enigmatic gated twin.  This simple stone house might have been anything from a guard post to a residence, or maybe both.  The door and window are painted plywood, propped into the empty frames as shoddy barriers against the decades of elemental torrent and breeze.  Thus, my heart was disappointed; no way to look inside, and far too high-traffic to just, well, barge in.  Guess I’ll have to just keep wondering.

I never realized how big Shelbyville Road is.  This stretch of the U.S. Route is flanked on either side by lines of bald trees, drainage ditches and recessed homes and a smattering of small, boutique-style businesses.  Because there’s rarely any reason to go to this particular part as your destination, it’s easy to tune it out.  If you can believe it, though, I do have one significant memory on this stretch of otherwise nondescript and mundane bit of road. 

Over twenty years ago, we were driving down this way in my parents’ 1986 gray Pontiac Bonneville.  I was in the back, picking at the stickers I had stuck to the window, and the radio said that Richard Nixon had died.  Both my parents reacted sharply to the news.  I was six, and I knew he was a former President, but that was about it.  Every picture I’d seen of him he was pretty young.  I don’t remember the conversation that followed, but I’ll always remember where I was when I had it.

After making wobbly and ankle-threatening steps on the pulverized asphalt edges of the road, I decided to abandon the roadside walk and made for the soft, earthen path that paralleled it.  The soil was squishy, likely from the frost or a recent rain.  The earth made an audible sound when I stepped on it; it reminded me of when I was New Zealand.  On a particularly long-distance walk in the South Island, we walked through some very old forest, undisturbed for eons.  The forest was hard at work decomposing its former denizens, both plant and animal.  Thus, the earth was very loamy and spongy, but it wasn’t springy.  It stole your steps when you walked in it, and the ground was covered in feathery moss.  Truly a sight to see, or a step to take, at least.

This wooded path continued for perhaps a quarter-mile before I was forced to switch back to the roadside.

Traditionally, I’m nearly certain that Hurstbourne was a vast estate, and the land was sold to developers perhaps forty or fifty years ago, judging by the sign and the ages of the houses within.  This would have been on the edge of town in the 1960’s, but now it is firmly suburban Louisville. 

Our Savior Lutheran is both a school and a church.  When I was growing up, the kids who went to Our Savior Lutheran were unanimously labeled as “weird.”  The one girl I knew who went there was our neighbor’s granddaughter, and she used to come over and play with my sister.  In fact, I provided that introduction. 

Her grandfather wandered across into our property when I was nine or ten years old, shooting basketball at my newly installed goal.  He asked if she could play with me, and we did for a while before my parents came out to see that I’d made a new friend.  When her grandfather explained, she was brought inside for something to drink, and she, Lil and I became friends.  We didn’t have too much in common, but we got along fine.  My most distinct memory of her involved a friendly wrestling match that went wrong, her pinning me to the ground firmly with her skill and, well, heft.  I was a pretty scrawny fifth-grader, but that was embarrassing.

That’s what I think when I look at Our Savior Lutheran: an eight-year old pinning my chest to the floor in my parents’ upstairs hallway.  Not sure that’s the connection they’d pick.

To see a truly barren storm creek is unusual; combined with the low precipitation level and the fact that it had been very cold the last few days meant that the local creek didn’t have a drop to drain away.

Suddenly, the roadside opened up and I was in a veritable expanse of shopping outlets and parking lots.

Oxmoor Mall, as we called it, is a fixture in most East Enders’ youths.  Choosing between here and the adjacent Mall St. Matthews was a critical turning point for an evening of fun, generally based on what food the food court had, as we were too poor to buy more than one thing in the retail shops.  I have to say, I was a Mall St. Matthews kid; I mean, it had my name in it.  At a bit after 12:00, it was still too early for it to be packed, but it was a warm Saturday, so by mid-afternoon, it’d be rolling with tweens and their reluctant parent chaperones.   

Walking through the mall, with its landmarks and bright colors to distract you from the distance, is generally a fairly leisurely experience.  Walking the length of the mall with traffic roaring by on your right is much less peaceful.  Nonetheless, I took my time and walked along th –

What the heck?

This guy was rockin’ down with the top down; he had some classic rock blaring out of what seemed like a boom box instead of his government issue jeep.  The light turned green and he turned, taking his CCR with him.

I crossed the intersection, and soon I had run out of shoulder.  I either had the option to walk alongside the very narrow shoulder which faced a high-speed interstate off-ramp or walk through a car dealership and hope a small fence.  I decided to split the difference, walking along the fence, avoiding the sharp, rusted barbed wire that lined the top of the fence.  It snagged my hoodie a couple times, but I kept pressing on.  Eventually, I had to cross.  I watched the off-ramp traffic for a moment, and it was steady.  Nope, still too short.  Now it seems – no, I guess I’ll wait another…now!

I bolted across the ramp and through the adjacent stoplight, which didn’t have a pedestrian light attached. 

The Watterson Expressway is the inner of our two beltways, and earlier this morning I had crossed over the outer one.  The Watterson is a solid ten or twelve lanes here, with places to split off onto I-64 just south of here, and the malls draw significant ramp traffic.  Underneath the roaring interstate, the echoes of cars around you and above you made a weirdly toneless music.  If you looked carefully, you could see the overpass quiver as a semi roared by. 

Normally, walking through the underpass is a quick affair, but as wide as it was, it took a couple minutes to cross.

We really forget how big things are when we’re not moving along them at a sprint.  Just the flyover here is probably a full half-mile long, all suspended on concrete pillars that we blindly trust. 

It takes a lot of planning to make sure it all lines up.  Remember when you’d start writing something long on a posterboard in school and you’d crunch up or stretch out the letters to make it look even across the whole thing because you misjudged your letter size?  Can’t do that here or you end up with pancake pedestrians.

The second mall and my preferred retail venue of the two sits on the west side of the Watterson.  We recently got a Cheesecake Factory (OK, maybe eight years ago, now,) which happens to be one of my parents’ preferred Sunday dinner locations.  The first one I ate at was in Kansas City ten years ago.  As a senior in high school, the fancy pillars and bright colors made it feel like a palace.  Now it’s just a place to pay 8.99 for a slice of cheesecake when Sara Lee will do.

The Jared jewelry store down the street was offering free chai tea as a goodwill promotion for their store.  It was admittedly a weird request for me; I was pretty cool, and I was very thirsty, but I was also in extended exercise and never like to drink hot things if I’m exercising (who doesn’t?)  I politely declined, assuming the two kind ladies who offered it to me had no idea the drink conundrum they’d spawned in me.

I crossed a side street, a Whole Foods, a Taco Bell and a Frisch’s Big Boy.  As I walked by their parking lot, I saw a woman getting into her car with some food.  But you see, she’d left her drink on top.  She pulled back and as I reached out to tell her, the Styrofoam cup tumbled off into Shelbyville Road, splattering sugary soda all over the pavement with a pop. 

Flashes of a Powerbook flying off an SUV...

After exactly one hour on Shelbyville, it was time to hook a right, my final destination just a few miles away.

I crossed to the western side of the street and walked down that way.  I was passing a pretty new strip mall that had expanded from its humble beginnings as a Hawley-Cooke Bookstore anchor.  Hawley-Cooke was one of my favorite places to go when I was a good.  It wasn’t video games, but it was close; lots of colorful books with places, animals, and comics, too!  In my youth I loved Garfield comics, so going to a bookstore was exciting, as I’d get to see which book had come out since the last time I was there.

Hawley-Cooke’s been closed for ten years; the whole complex that housed it, formerly a “C” shape with the Hawley-Cooke at the center, got cut into an “I” and “S” shape, with squiggles of strip mall shops and boutiques on either side.  Borders even tried to capitalize on their former location, and we all know how well that went for ‘em.

Bowling Boulevard is a long drag.  I was on it half a mile before I saw anything interesting, besides a bank of luxury car dealers on the other side of the street: Beargrass Creek.

I actually see bits of Beargrass everywhere in Louisville; the little-creek-that-could wiggles all over the eastern part of the city.  Pretty sure I’ve even mentioned it on here before.

Bridge arches over creeks is a great place to find detailed graffiti.  Because it’s relatively easy to access, but very hidden from view, lots of artists come out and make their marks here.

The creek itself was thawing, and large chunks of ice still floated around in it, despite the mid-50s ambient temperature.  It takes large amounts of water a long time to freeze; logically, it takes a long time to thaw.

On my very first walk, I took a very similar picture.  It was August, overcast, and hot, but it’s always funny to slalom past a place you’ve touched before on foot, even if it’s just in passing. 

I followed Bowling to where I met my next road, Hubbards Lane. 

Browns Lane, which I took at my first walk, terminates at this intersection.  Hubbards is its continuation.  I’ve actually known several people to live in this area, so it’s pretty familiar to me now.

Just as soon as those words were out of my mental mouth, I come across a beautiful building I’d never seen before.  How charming!  I’ve always loved yellow houses, whether or not they’re in vogue.  I don’t know; it’s such a bold decision, I think, to paint your house such a firm, loud color.  More power to you!

It appeared to be a bed and breakfast of sorts, nestled in the residential area of the decidedly suburban St. Matthews.  One happy couple in their thirties was unloading their luggage when I passed by.  It’s kind of weird thinking about having to have a place to stay when coming to Louisville.  I’ve always had somewhere to go, so that’s a truly foreign experience for me.  Even for folks who come home to Louisville, if no one they love calls it home anymore, it’s just another city. 

I checked my notes.  Three miles to my final destination, and it was just past one.  One last push!

***

The final installment will post later this week.  Thanks for hanging in there!

Keep going –

Matt