Cycling around the Windy City...

I wandered down to the river and slightly beyond to locate the Fairmont Chicago Millennium Park hotel, which, understandably, is close to Chicago's Millennium Park. As I expected, it was one of those loomy, dark and luxurious 'corporate' hotels loved so much by conference organisers. I asked a few questions and then discovered that North Michigan Avenue, the road on which my hotel is situated, is bang in the middle of the city's shopping district. I was located on Chicago's answer to Oxford Street and decided that I'd take a look later on in the day. For now, though, I continued my walk until I found a cycle hire place on the outskirts of the aforementioned Millennium Park.

Riding the streets of Chicago on an Electra Townie – very comfortable

I hired an Electra Townie bicycle, put my copy of Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World in the small pouch on the handlebars and set about riding around the city. While it was busy, it wasn't what I'd call dangerous, but being as I stuck to the city centre, it was all rather samey. In total I cycled for about two hours, probably a little more, weaving in and out of the traffic and watching the city from the perspective of a cyclist. I found myself on North Michigan Avenue and decided to dismount and check out some of the stores. The obligatory Apple Store was right next door to my hotel so, having padlocked the bike in the street I wandered in to take a look at the Apple watches and the lap tops.  The Apple Store is like some kind of temple for tech heads.

Crossing the river...

Across the street is Banana Republic, a shop they don't have in the UK and one I'm sure the two women in my family would enjoy. This one is huge, on three levels, and they have a 50% sale going on. Some interesting stuff – for women and men – but being very utilitarian where clothes are concerned (why have a 'trendy' tee shirt emblazoned with some kind of message or logo when a plain tee shirt will suffice?) I eventually left the store empty-handed. They have a Macy's department store so I wandered in, checked out the perfumery department and the menswear and again left empty-handed.

I thought it best to hand the bike back before having lunch so I pedalled off towards Millennium Park – which involved riding back along North Michigan Avenue and negotiating a busy left turn near the park. Over the road from the park is the hugely overrated Tavern at the Park, a kind of pub with tables and space at the bar to sit and 'enjoy' the cuisine, which is very predictable and not, in my opinion, that great. It was one of those places where you can bet you'll get unnecessarily large portions. I ordered the chicken hash lunch with a Revolution Porter – and to be fair the portion was average-sized – and finished off with apple crumble and ice cream. The main course was fine (ish) but it came with truffles and I've now discovered that I'm not endowed with expensive tastes. If I had to list the things I really hate eating, I'd definitely have foie gras at the top of the list followed by Queen scallops – let's make that all scallops – and now I'd like to add truffles. They overpowered my chicken hash, which was basically chicken stew (but not as good as my wife makes it). It came with two poached eggs, which I knew would be runny and messy-looking on the plate once I had sliced through the egg and allowed the yoke to mingle with the stew and...ugh!

Scenes from the city as seen from the bike...

Foolishly I asked for dessert and, to be fair, was told that the portions were pretty large. I opted for something I thought would be safe: apple crumble and ice cream. But it was far from safe. I don't know what they did to it, but it was overly sweet and sugary, the ice cream smothered in something that was bound to be really bad for the health – some kind of syrupy, caramel concoction. Other guests passed comment on the size and I smiled back with a look of apprehension, wishing I'd never bothered.

Multi-storey car park and apts.

Next to me was an investment banker from California and after a couple of Revolution Porters the last thing I wanted was a big political conversation, not least because I know fuck-all about American politics. Equally, I didn't want to talk business either, but we did both and I was quietly glad that I was finished eating and simply awaiting the return of my credit card.

I ambled back along North Michigan Avenue amidst the crowds of shoppers and tourists, clutching my copy of The Man Who Cycled the World, which, for some reason, attracted the attention of the Americans, some of whom passed comment. "Did he do it?" And I'd reply, "Yes, he did it and then he cycled the Americas." The book became a kind of icebreaker as, earlier, the investment banker had asked me about it too. So if you own a copy of this book and don't want to be bothered by strangers, leave it at home.

Revolution Porter

When I reached my hotel room I hit the sack. I have, in fact, just woken up at 0400hrs UK time and whatever it might be here in Chicago (2200hrs). I was woken up by the female voice on my lap top exclaiming, "It's four hours." I thought I was dreaming or that the clock radio on the bedside cabinet had come on or there was an intruder in the room who liked to remind people of the time. It was a good excuse to get up and clean my teeth and check out my schedule for the day ahead (until I realised that it was only 0400hrs in the UK and that here in the Windy City it was still the night before. So I turned to the computer and here I am. That same female voice has just told me that it's 'five hours' back in the UK, meaning it's 2300hrs here. I think I might hit the sack again, or watch some TV or just lie on the bed and contemplate great things (like what I don't know).

But I haven't mentioned the bike or the Chicago Marathon, both of which need to be discussed. First, the bike. An Electra Townie, which they sell in the UK. It has a front brake and a mechanism whereby you pedal backwards and the bike stops. It works well, This is a comfortable bike, ideal for the city, but I'm not sure how good it would be on the sort of rides (and distances) covered by NoVisibleLycra. Don't get me wrong, if I owned one, I certainly wouldn't be trading it in for something more suitable as it would do the job. Remember that in most cases a bike is a bike is a bike, although I'm sure Mark Beaumont would disagree and I certainly wouldn't fancy cycling the world on an Electra Townie.

Not as good as my wife's chicken stew...

Sunday sees the Bank of America Chicago Marathon and all over the city I've seen people in trainers, especially in the hotel. Going back to my room in the elevator (lift) I got chatting to a guy from Ecuador who was running his first marathon. We were soon joined by another Ecuadorian doing the same thing, but not necessarily for the first time (I didn't ask him).

Wherever I go there are people wearing brightly-coloured trainers who, I'm guessing, are fast asleep at this very moment in preparation for the big day tomorrow. I say 'tomorrow' because it's still yesterday as I write this. It's only tomorrow in the UK.

And now it really is time for me to revisit my bed and get some more sleep, although I doubt I'll get much now that I'm fully awake and in writing mode.

Breakfast in America...

View from my hotel room window...

American breakfasts have always been known for their size, but the great thing about my hotel is that they leave the gluttony up to the individual. In other words, I could have made a pig of myself, but I didn't. Instead, I opted for some fresh slices of melon, a Greek yoghurt with blueberries, tea and fruit juice and some scrambled egg with a few diced and baked potatoes – they're probably called something, but in essence they were diced and baked (or possibly fried) potatoes. It might be hash browns, not sure.

What I hate about some hotels is that everything costs something, although I know that's true of everything. So the waiter puts juice and hot water on the table and says that the juice is so many dollars, the tea costs so much, the serve-yourself buffet is $22.00 and so on. I was waiting for him to say "and the chair, if you want to sit down, is $50, the cutlery, $25 and you have to pay me to serve you," but of course it was never going to be that bad. Perhaps it is in some places.

I've started reading Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World and it's an excellent read. So far he's riding through Poland but already he's experienced bike hassles – two punctures and the spokes on his rear wheel snapping, forcing him to find a friendly bike shop to fix it, which he did, and now that the rain has stopped for him – it pissed down as he rode through Germany – the sun is now out, his nose is burnt and he's staying in a strange hotel that seems to be run by the Russian mafia. I'll keep you informed and a book review of sorts will follow just as soon as I finish reading the book. I'll be writing more on David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries too, so watch this space.

Back to my breakfast. Once again I found myself mildly miffed that nobody other than the English seem capable of serving a decent cup of tea. They might turn up with their lacquered box full of packaged teabags – resembling a humidor and offering an unnecessarily large choice of different teas – but they can't serve it properly. Milk has to be requested, I'm given a teabag and some hot water and that's it. This is, of course, coffee land and it's always expected that people drink the stuff. I don't.

Room 811, Warwick Allerton Hotel, Chicago

The breakfast was fine. As an afterthought I had a banana and one of those small boxes of cornflakes in a bowl so large it made the portion size seem small and somehow beached on the plate, like an unwanted, toxic cargo from a sunken ship, washed up on a lonely beach. I sprinkled a sachet of sugar over it and finished it off in between paragraphs of Mark Beaumont's excellent book.

The breakfast cost me $26.74 – including the tip – quite pricey when you think about it, but I'm going to take a stroll around town shortly and hopefully I'll find a little café somewhere downtown that might offer a little more value-for-money, although, knowing me (and knowing most people) the convenience of the hotel breakfast will win through.

In Chicago...

This is the first time I've been to Chicago without being 'in transit' somewhere else. Normally I arrive here at some ungodly hour and then, after eating a meal at Romano's Macaroni Grill, I catch a connecting flight to Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Indianapolis. Today, I went no further than Chicago. In fact there was one time recently – or possibly not that recently – when my flight to London was cancelled due to a faulty aircraft, and I was forced to make an overnight stop in the Windy City. It's documented on the blog. I stayed in a Marriott close to the Cumberland CTA station, so the following morning, prior to flying home later in the day, I took a trip to Clark and Lake, wandered around for a bit, had lunch in the Corner Bakery and then took a taxi back to the hotel where I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet before taking a shuttle bus back to the airport and then onwards to London. I remember feeling that Chicago was a boring place, but this was because it was a Sunday morning, I found myself in some kind of business district where everything was closed and that was the end of it.

Soup IN a roll! I ate the lot.

On Friday I took flight BA297 out of Heathrow's Terminal Five at 1605hrs and got there with enough time to have lunch at the airport – at a place called Huxley's. I had breakfast there once and it was pretty good. I remember because I uploaded a software update to my iphone and it took ages to sort out. Anyway, Huxley's wasn't as good as I expected it to be; I ordered butternut squash soup followed by a chicken burger with chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot – much needed. The soup didn't come in a dish but in a hollowed out bread roll with a lid, like some kind of pastry pot. I wasn't sure of the protocol but I ate the pot. And then, feeling a little down (alcohol can do that, it accentuates how you're feeling and I wasn't feeling good), I wandered aimlessly for a while wondering why women like shopping so much as I passed by Louis Vuitton and saw a few of them admiring the handbags. I considered a cup of tea and a cake at EAT, but couldn't be bothered and eventually took the escalator down to where the driver-less trains take people to various gates. In my case Gate B47.

The flight was uneventful. I swapped seats with somebody's 'mom' so they could sit together. I still had an aisle seat, which was what I wanted, but I would have much preferred seat 37A, an exit seat with plenty of legroom. The annoying thing was that I could have taken it when the seats became available on line 24 hours prior to flying – but at a cost of £58! Even the woman on the BA desk at Heathrow said they should have been free. Had I been sitting in that seat I would have enjoyed the flight much more. As it was, I stood most of the way. Once I'd eaten my dinner – chicken curry with rice followed by a chocolate mousse and a small piece of cheese with two crackers – I walked to the back of the plane and basically stood around for most of the flight. I chatted to a computer consultant from Cleveland who plays the stockmarket and buys property. A nice guy, Lebanese, on his way back from a trip to Beirut via London, without his wife who, for some reason, didn't fancy the trip. Apparently there used to be a direct flight from Cleveland to London operated by Continental, but not anymore. I wish I'd known that, although, if I had I would never have known how wonderful it was to sit and enjoy Pollo Caprese and a glass of Cabernet in Romano's Macaroni Grill (opposite Gate H3).

View from the rear of the plane – an arduous, boring flight

Sometimes, to ease the boredom, I used the toilet, but only to stand there for a few seconds of solitude, not even to take a piss. Then I flushed the toilet, purely for effect, and re-emerged feeling just as weary and cheesed off as before I went in. With about one hour to go, the trolley dollies brought out a chicken sandwich and a mini Kit Kat, so I returned to my seat where I'd spent no more than two hours during the entire flight. I'd listened to Saint Caen's Symphony Number Three (fourth movement) plus Stylo by Gorillaz, Park Life by Blur, Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon, Jive Talking by the Bee Gees (I like the bass line) and The Wizard by Black Sabbath, not forgetting Joy Division's She's Lost Control and Love Will Tear Us Apart. I couldn't be bothered to watch any movies.

The flight was smooth – no turbulence – and daylight all the way. We glided into O'Hare and even the usually arduous task of immigration was smooth and fast, thanks to machines rather than humans. My suitcase was there on the reclaim – now that's an anxious part of flying – and soon I found myself in a taxi heading downtown to my hotel on North Michigan Avenue. My cab driver was from Namibia – where he says there are lots of Germans – and used to work for the cosmetics company Avon here in the Windy City, but was made redundant and took up cabbing. He moved to Chicago because he knew people in the city and hadn't been impressed with LA or New York. He found the latter dirty and wasn't keen on LA's downtown. It wasn't a long journey and soon I found myself in my room preparing to get some sleep. I haven't slept well (who does after a transaltantic flight?) and I know that over the next day or two I'll feel tired and weary at odd hours of the day until my body clock kicks in to US time. And then, of course, it'll be time to go home.

Even the view out of the window was boring

I've slept for about four hours. It's now 0608hrs and I've been up for around an hour.

The hotel room is fine: the TV works, the room temperature is just right, there's a minibar full of 'stuff' and a 'snacks draw', not that I'll be indulging in any of it. The room is sort of L-shaped. You come through the door and turn first right for the bathroom and second right for the bed. The desk, however, is too close to the cabinet that houses the minibar and 'snacks draw' and it took me an age to get the laptop's cumbersome charger plugged in – the desk is too heavy to move and so is the cabinet. Other than that, no hassles. I've entered the breakfast time zone so I think I'll head on downstairs to check things out. I could do with a decent cup of tea and some cereal.