Damn Ryan

Cruising the Dan Ryan Expressway. 16 lanes of mayhem.

I'm still trying to get Mark to drive more around here. He actually doesn't do too badly. It's his screaming at the other drivers and trying to out race them that scares the poop out of me. Of course he only does that on wide boulevards with long straight-aways. His fear of curves and narrow streets still keeps me in the driver's seat most of the time. I used to love driving, but I am pretty much over it these days. I did use Uber a few weeks ago. That was pretty nice. A guy with a relatively new car came and picked me up and took me to the Pride Festival on North Halsted. I didn't have to tip him and even though he took a longer route than I would have, the price was already set.

My Chicago driving skills have kicked in, but after twenty seven years away from here I find that some things have changed. For instance, on the Dan Ryan Expressway I feel that I am doing my duty by getting in the far left lane and setting my cruise control at seventy miles per hour. That is fifteen miles per hour over the limit. However, that is not nearly fast enough for the cars that have piled up behind me and zoom past on my right, giving me the side eye. Apparently in the intervening years that I was away from Chicago the speed limit signs that read 55mph, no longer mean 70mph like they used to. They now mean for you to go eighty miles per hour or more. Which is pretty exciting when you come around a curve and see a sea of brake lights. And where are the cops? Other than the intersections with red light cameras, and camera enforced speed limits near parks, I see no cops giving out tickets. Not a one. On the expressways it is a free for all. Which is not good for me, because I'll never get Mark to drive out to Tinley Park to visit Mom and the flea markets.