CLARK STREET CONTOURS--NICK JACKSON

Every weekday morning, a little after or before the sun has broken my eastern window, I head out to bicycle my favorite route in Chicago. The entire trip, except for a couple of blocks at the beginning and a couple more at the end, is on one streetóClark. Spending 7 miles on a single street might seem boring, and indeed it might be if that street were not Clark. But cutting and winding its way through the grid at a nice, steep angle, it always holds my interest.

I begin by heading east on West Winnemac Ave toward the lake. I cross Ashland Ave and rise up the last block of Winnemac before it intersects Clark. The preceding blocks of Winnemac are flat, really flat, so flat, that the few feet of elevation I gain before I reach Clark take on great significance. They herald my arrival on the elevated ground of the Graceland spit which was once a sandy finger of high ground surrounded on all sides by Lake Chicago. As I make the right hand turn to head to work, I take a quick look north, toward Green Bay, the original destination of this road. Long before it was renamed for a Gen. Clarke, it was known as the Green Bay Trail. A well-traveled footpath, the trail followed the lakeshore, never straying too far inland.

From Winnemac I head south past the walls of St. Boniface cemetery, which slope gently eastward toward the lake. I then squeeze through the four narrow crowded blocks of wholesale imports before I hit Montrose, where on clear mornings I have my first view of the Sears Tower. For the next four blocks the road curves lovingly around the well drained land of the Graceland cemetery, and I can feel my speed increaseóquickened by the graceful arc slinging me southward. I trace my affection for curves to my childhood. I was born in Boston, MA, known to many as the home of the wild driver. While the snaky streets certainly can drive one a little crazy, it is more to the point to say that they simply donít function very well to accommodate the automobile. The city developed initially without a plan as streets slowly radiated from the central market core, winding their way between hilly land and slippery shore. Neither of these features proved enduring as landmarks; the hills were long ago leveled or reduced, and the marshy littoral filled in and out, leaving the modern traveler sometimes confused.

So imagine my surprise upon finding myself in Chicago, home of streets so straight, numbered and true that getting lost can take some effort. But Clark, and to be fair, a few others like Vincennes, are different. Sure it is subtle, but for nearly three quarters of my journey I can feel the primacy of the land as it leads me to the past and present market core of the region I now call home. At Addison, I can trace the landís contour along the foundation of Wrigley Field. At Diversey, I feel as if I can see the actual shape and slope of the sand dunes that used to run along the beach between the shore and the trail. At North Avenue however, Clark succumbs to the grid. On some old maps drawn before 1850 the true alignment of the Green Bay Trail is apparent, existing on paper as the end of a forest and the beginning of a clearing. Now there is no mark of the old road, and I must head due south. If I could continue on my way, through the Latin School and the homes and high rises behind it, I would find the trail again on Rush Street. But most mornings I am happy to leave that mess alone and continue south, towards the river, up and over and into the loop where my journey ends.