Gentle waves lapped the shores as Lake Geneva stirred like an AM cup of Swiss Miss. We rose and rode, parsing the mileage like abacus 🧮 beads. 20, 27, 29. Twenty parsecs in we stopped for second breakfast at Dunkin, which America Runs On, then spent a while learning to wall jump to a height of 10 feet before tacking on 27 more and unhinging our jaws and belts for afternoon pizza.
Deciduous lanes and placid byways kept our cortisol levels between the 8am standard of 10-20 micrograms per deciliter, and despite the numerous townfolk who expressed concern for our lives when told we would be riding in Chicago, our ingress was smoother than a Desitin-lined salt flat and made easy by Sachin and his family, who graciously hosted us in their charming Evanston abode. Thank you Gita, Todd Sachin and Asha the lab-hound mix for your hospitality.
Soon after landing, we spread our wings once more to flap downtown for authentic deep dish za, making today roundly pizza-oriented, then fanned out like decorative pheasant feathers in down-lined bags, eight avian adventurers in a basement roost.
Tomorrow we’re back to the bike shop first thing, meaning we have time to sleep in before taking to the wind and skirting the undercarriage of Lake Michigan in our perpetual quest for eastward expansion. We make offerings to cement golems and steel titans that we may pass in peace and continue in our quest for a destiny made manifest.