THWARTED, OR YET ANOTHER LESSON IN NON-ATTACHMENT



I knew Wrigley Field was in the neighborhood when Ira told me about the vacant apartment in his building back in the mid-90's.

But really.

The baseball season doesn't start til next week.

Yet there was an unusual amount of traffic when I went outside this morning to find my car and drive to my home yoga studio.

It's the one time each week I practice with others -- and receive the occasional adjustment.

And yes, astanga police, it's on a SATURDAY.

But today, instead of empty streets, there was a lot of activity.

Traffic Management Authority minorities with neon yellow pinnies, flashlights and walkie-talkies were stationed at every intersection.

They seemed to be directing traffic away from the high school.

The streets were clogged.

At 8AM.

I assumed there'd been a shooting.

But no.

After being diverted eight blocks (one mile) out of my way, I finally yelled out my window and asked one of TMAs directing traffic what the hell was going on.

"Cubs Walk."

What?

"Cubs Walk!"

Alderman visiting?

"CUBS WALK!"

Oh.

Then I saw them, heading north on Ravenswood towards Irving Park Road.

Streams of white runners with numbers pinned onto their blue and white Cubs shirts.

Actually, they were more like joggers.

I looked for a way out.

A way to go around, and get to the yoga center.

There was none.

Because between the studio and me were hundreds of runners.

Er, joggers.

So I did what any law-abiding citizen would do.

I did a U-turn and headed back home.

On the way I saw many vehicles prowling, making U-turns, and honking in frustration.

As I drove I tried to come up with a plan.

It was drizzling and the radar had showed that more rain was coming. There was no way I was going to ride my bicycle -- even if I do have fenders and it's just ten blocks.

So I parked my car in the spot I'd just vacated.

I walked over to the nearest yellow-vested TMA and asked when the race is supposed to end.

"What?"

When will this end?

"WHAT?" he yelled, and turned down his walkie-talkie.

WHEN DOES THIS END?

"I don't know," he shrugged.

So I went back up the three flights of stairs, said hello to the cat, and pulled out my mat.

Then I walked over the computer and started typing.

Now that's off my chest, I'm free to practice.

Photo by Caca, smapped while inside a moving train.