Originally published 20 June 2010
For as long as I’ve been alive (and I believe longer than that), my Father has practiced what [I preached on my transit/urbanism blog]. Despite living in Chicago’s suburbs, he has transit access comparable to anywhere in the city, and he takes full advantage. He rides his bike a mile and a half each way to the Metra station. (Try as he might, he can’t convince me it’s uphill both ways.) His briefcase and (if he’s working out that day) gym bag fit easily into his rear rack. He rides in his work clothes&mdashwhich sometimes means a suit—and so he usually goes at a comfortable pace. His reflective vest may look dorky, but the streets near our house aren’t lit as well as Chicago’s, so it’s a necessity, especially in the winter when the sun is only in the sky for a few hours. He’ll ride in the rain and the cold, but tries to avoid the snow—not because he can’t, but because he doesn’t trust drivers.
He’s always worked in the loop, so it’s just a quick walk from the train station to his office—again, rain or shine. Sure, this is all a lifestyle choice for him, though I’ve never heard him say it in those terms. He doesn’t proselytize about any of it—it’s just what he does. He has a car because not all of his weekend errands can be done on foot or bike—though some can. It’s a hybrid, but that was an economic decision as much as anything else—same goes for upgrading our house’s A/C system.
When I was about 11, he patiently explained to me that State & Madison was the center of the universe, and told me the next time I came downtown to visit him at work I was on my own to get to him. It helped that he drew me the most detailed map I’d ever seen—I think it included cardinal directions, wayfinding landmarks, addresses, and even how many paces it would take, as if I was seeking buried treasure. I found my way, and realized as time went by that there were a number of different ways to get to him and got to explore a little slice of the city—hooray for a robust street grid!
Do I wish he’d wear a helmet? Yes, but old dog/new tricks and all that. Does he roll stop signs? Yep. But fortunately our home town’s street design doesn’t encourage reckless speeding and aren’t so busy that it’s dangerous. Could he convince more people around us to do what he does if he’d stop being so unassuming about it? Probably, but they’re all old dogs with their own old tricks, too. Would it be a better place if more people realized how easy it is to make actions like this a lifetime habit? Absolutely.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
My father continued to ride his bike for most of the next decade. He took a break in 2011 to beat bladder cancer, but returned—albeit with a more comfortable saddle and not quite as often with a gym bag in his rack. When Divvy opened in Chicago in spring 2013, I got him a founder's membership as a Father's Day present. He was member number 81—an auspicious number back when Marian Hossa was wrecking opponents for Chicago's hockey team. He took another break—along with everyone else—in 2020 and into 2021 when he worked from home during covid, but he was back riding again in 2022 the two or three days a week he would go into the office. I'm not sure what his last day in the saddle was. Probably some time in late fall of 2022, before the roads got icy and before he started to lose his strength and balance. He retired at the end of 2022 when his cancer returned, leaving us and his bike behind for good on August 31, 2025 at the age of 74. Somehow none of us ever managed to get a photo of him riding, which is a shame, because under the fluorescent vest he cut a pretty dapper figure: I remember a long dark brown trenchcoat, scarf, and a wool newsboy hat got him through most winters. Though I never heard him say it, he certainly seemed to abide by the adage "there's no bad weather, only bad clothes."
I'm going to assume that you all read his obituary. He wrote it, with minimal edits from my Mom. His voice in writing it leaps out from the page, as many have you have already remarked. In that spirit, if you ever heard my Dad give any type of toast or remarks, you heard him start by joking that he was here to “rise in rebuttal”. So, I am here to rise in rebuttal, and provide the editors notes that he didn't afford me for his obit.
So let's start from the top: he compliments his two smart, athletic, and successful children and four smart, athletic grandchildren. Ok, that’s actually 100% correct, no notes.
He ran and jumped in high school and at Michigan. He glides right past the actual statistics: a gaudy 22 feet 4 and 1/4 inch personal record, enough to, in the words of the Michigan Daily, "spark Michigan to an early lead" against Indiana in 1972. We will not remark on his utter failure to pass these genes along to either of his children. Maybe the grandchildren?
He met my Mom because she was already an associate at the firm he joined. This was in 1976, a full twelve years before Michelle and Barack Obama met under identical circumstances in 1988. This is obviously not a coincidence: my Mom provided sage legal advice to Barack in 1986 and he must have sensed how she and my Dad met and took it to heart. But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and we're all touched that the Obamas would flatter them so.
In his obit, he talks about being a condo lawyer, but provides no useful advice. Here it is, since he reminded us of it all the time, even when we were in elementary school and could barely pronounce the word condominium: never buy into a new-build condo—wait until the lawsuit between the association and the developer gets settled first.
He then circles back around to Libby and me, and mentions coaching baseball. He does not talk about the few years toward the end of his time coaching when he was convinced that I should try switch hitting. This was a last-ditch effort to overcome what was one of his great regrets: that he didn’t have a left-handed child. I was a terrible lefty batter and abandoned the idea almost immediately. But with Grandchildren the search for a lefty legacy continued, and he was delighted in Gus being a southpaw, and thrilled every time Louise reached for a spoon with her left, even if it was just to throw the spoon on the floor.
Finally, I’m sure many of you were given directions by him at one time or another, and he probably helped you get oriented by reminding you that “the Lake is always east.” He loved being out on the Lake, enjoying the calm out on the water. He was the Lake for me; the steady, orienting presence in my life, and I’ll miss him.