Sixteen-hour work days aren’t conducive to a healthy work-life balance.
I salvaged a bit of my own balance on a bicycle while covering the Democratic National Convention over four picture-perfect Chicago summer days and nights.
To sidestep DNC traffic bottlenecks and avoid CTA hiccups — and to save our venerable nonprofit news organization a few expensed Ubers (you’re welcome, bosses) — I logged 58.1 miles on my trusty Jamis Coda while darting from schmoozefest to political schmoozefest.
That often meant showing up for the functions with a sweaty back and an occasionally forgotten rolled-up pant leg.
But thanks to a blessed week of 80-degree temperatures, low humidity and overly air-conditioned media tents, I generally gave myself enough time to cool down, air out — and not stink up the joint.
At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t stink. You’d have to ask one of my hardworking colleagues, or any of the poor souls who ended up crammed next to my 6-foot-4 frame in the United Center nosebleeds during the prime-time speeches.
While covering my first two national political conventions this summer (Milwaukee's Republican National Convention was better suited to the electric scooter), I quickly learned it’s a lot of listening to politicians gab at Point A, wringing a nugget of news from that, and then repeating at points B, C and D etc. from about 8 a.m. until midnight.
For a reporter like me, the bulk of those 16 hours were whiled away waiting for politicians to talk; listening to politicians talk; and/or trying in vain to get politicians to actually say something, anything, beyond the ad nauseam talking points — three of my least favorite journalistic pursuits.
Conventions are important because they showcase the priorities of our nation’s top political parties. They also spur massive protests and bring some business to town. That’s why the Chicago Sun-Times, WBEZ and other media outlets pour such immense resources into covering them.
But they’re also painfully boring.
The good news is a few quick miles on your bike will lift your spirits in riding out the long political slog.
For more than a year, Gov. JB Pritzker, Mayor Brandon Johnson and every other Illinois Democrat talked up the DNC as a way to show off Chicago. Turns out they were right, this jaded reporter must admit.
I fell in love with the city again and again each morning while pedaling on four hours’ sleep up Canal Street from Bridgeport, the immaculate skyline views providing a better pick-me-up than my coffee mug.
Wheeling through the hulking towers of Dearborn Street and locking up my bike in the shadow of the London Guarantee Building made the three hours I was about to spend sitting through the Illinois delegation breakfast that much more tolerable.
Coffee cup No. 2, enjoyed along the Chicago Riverwalk, staved off the heavy eyelids after filing the day’s first few live blog submissions. So did the 5-mile jaunt along Milwaukee and Division to a Humboldt Park assignment, which also invited coffee cup No. 3.
Holding on for dear life down the Damen Avenue bike lane kept the senses sharp for the wrong reasons. But rolling out the final mile to the United Center on a blissfully carless, tree-lined Wood Street gave me new life to endure each night’s made-for-TV political programming.
I’ll remember the way the UC’s 300-level shook when Kamala Harris walked out to accept the first presidential nomination for a Black woman atop a major-party ticket.
I’ll remember the pin-drop silence of Milwaukee’s Fiserv Forum as Donald Trump spoke just days after an attempted assassin came within an inch of the nominee’s life.
I’ll remember the buzz — and eventual disappointment — of DNC attendees praying for Beyonce to walk on stage, and the absurdity of Kid Rock urging thousands of RNC guests to “fight, fight.”
You better believe I’ll remember chatting on the DNC floor with Wendell Pierce, the legendary Detective “Bunk” Moreland of “The Wire” himself, one of my favorite actors, who campaigned for Harris.
I’ll also remember the festival of smells that welcomed me on both jam-packed convention floors. Bike sweat or not, I pray I didn’t carry the miasma of BO that can percolate in a crowd of overworked, overcrowded and sometimes overserved delegates.
More than that, I’ll remember laboring alongside and learning from my wildly talented colleagues, Tina Sfondeles and Lynn Sweet, and standing in awe of ace Sun-Times photographers Ashlee Rezin and Anthony Vazquez.
But mostly I’ll remember zipping past the postconvention traffic gridlock, taking the long way home and decompressing with 5 quick miles along the lakefront and the nighttime skyline.
You should try it.
