Another rain delay. Strong storms moving through Chicago and Indiana. Lightning and thunder and some local flooding. Make my way out of Michigan City, Ind. by 7 a.m. My goal is to bike through Chicago to Kenosha, about 114 miles today ... and, possibly make it to my sister's house in Franklin.

There's a bike path out of Michigan City that runs along the railroad tracks. It's narrow, hard-packed pea gravel and with the rain it means a lot of extra gunk in my gears so I stick to the road. About 20 miles out I bum a ride from Ellen and her pickup truck. The main thing weighing on my mind is the safety of Gary, Ind. I figure if Ellen can get me through some of the seedier parts of town I'd be good to go.

Ellen's on her way to work. "I get paid to play games with the elderly, what could be better," she said taking a drag on a Marlborough menthol. Ellen's a single mom with a 13-year-old who decided "while it's still summer vacation she can stay up with friends until 5 a.m."

We drive into the outskirts of Gary. It's light; sunny as a matter of fact, which makes me feel a little better. "See, this is about how bad it is," said Ellen as I notice the open space, busy traffic, church, and run down / vacant businesses. We get as far as the intersection of Highway 20 and I-65 and Ellen's gotta bail because she has to get to work.

I'm in the heart of downtown Gary. With intense focus, I start biking like I've been bitten by a jackrabbit.

The streets of Gary are full of potholes and glass. Boarded up business fronts, few people. Traffic moves fast. One man yells out the window of his van. I think he said, "Good luck you!" but I can't be sure.

Life is full of choices, and I'm ready to admit I've made a bad one.

Although I don't talk about it a lot, I have made mistakes on this tour. In my haste, trying to ditch Gary I misread my map and try to jump on Highway 912. It's much like the interstate. I kick myself for wasting time and not preparing a better plan. I swing around and head back down the off ramp, into oncoming traffic which frequently reminds me of my lack of intelligence.

Finally into East Chicago I stop at a crowded gas station for a break. Inside, the attendants ring up sales behind thick bullet proof glass. I joke with a younger black man about the "G" tattoo on his arm muscle. "Green Bay Packers fan, are ya?" giving him a big Steffes grin. "It stands for gang banger," he said in a you're messin' around with the wrong guy tone.

Note to self: stop being Pollyanna in spandex. Spandex does not stop bullets.

A taller, string bean black gentleman steps up and starts a conversation about my destination. He has a map in his van and offers to give me directions. The license plate on his ride says "Jesus."

"Used to play music in Milwaukee," he said in a down home manner. "You should be there by noon! How fast you go on that thing?" he said, estimating my speed at 40 miles an hour.

I feel a sense of relief talking to "Jesus license plate man." With a renewed sense of optimism I'm just a couple miles from Lake Shore Drive, which will take me up through Chicago and into Wisconsin.

While readying to get going I see in the reflection of the glass of the gas station window, Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony-G-tattoo-guy making his way toward me. Again, I curse myself for making bad choices. "I should have made it clear," he said as I turn around and he flashes me a grin. "The G used to stand for gang banger, my wife got killed when she was 23 years old and it took that incident to help me find God." Jammal Davis hands me his business card. "He changed my life," he said with a reminder that if I need help I should give him a call.
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