Tribune Review of India Slide Show

Chicago Tribune

January 17, 2002 Thursday

Courier takes in world sights;
2-wheel treks go beyond city limit

By Jon Anderson, Tribune staff reporter


As someone once said, every place is within walking distance if you have the time. George Christensen, a Chicago bike messenger, feels the same way about bicycles.

Recently, Christensen rode solo across India to Nepal.

"I could have just flown into New Delhi and biked the 750 miles to Katmandu," Christensen told a rapt gathering of the DePaul Geographical Society on Saturday. "But it's always more satisfying to go thousands of miles instead of hundreds. So I started in Bombay."

The adventure, Christensen reported, cost him about $2 a day. ("Well, I did spend $3 a night for a hotel in Calcutta," he noted. "But that was only four days.")

The secret, he said, is near total self-sufficiency on the road.

Using a pointer on a map, backed by 90 minutes of colorful slides, Christensen re-created a three-month journey from Bombay to the beaches of Goa, the slums of Calcutta, the tea plantations of Darjeeling and the heights of Katmandu, which he reached after surmounting 115 kilometers of what he called "the roughest road in all of Asia."

His tales brought more than a few gasps from the Geographic Society, which gathers up to 10 times a year to hear lectures ranging from the role of cinnamon in global exploration to "An Exotic Tour of the Southeast U.S.A." Speakers over the years have included Mayor Richard J. Daley (on Chicago) and Cardinal Francis George (on Rome).

"Many of these people drive in from the suburbs. Some are former students I had 20 or 30 years ago," said the society's moderator, Richard Houk, a DePaul geography professor who founded the group in 1961. It now has 275 members.

There was no shortage of interest from the crowd in the nuances of Christensen's adventures, which have taken him, in a word, everywhere. Through northern Scandinavia, where hazards include tunnels as long as five miles, often arctic-cold and slippery with ice. Through Peru, where Shining Path guerrillas prey on unwary travelers. Across Europe. Across the U.S. And, for 1,000 miles, around the perimeter of Lake Michigan.

"On trips," he reported, "I usually ride 100 miles a day, from dawn to dusk, with two hours' riding, then a break."

Now 50, Christensen used to favor odd jobs that allowed him to take off for his excursions. He has worked as a bike messenger for 13 years. "It keeps me in shape--all the time," he said.

It also keeps him alert to sudden challenges, from hitting black ice to dodging cars running red lights.

"But these are two different ventures," he went on. "When you're a bike messenger, you have to stay totally alert. You can't let your mind wander. When you're off in remote areas, your mind can go anywhere.

"You can reverie. Think of friends, the past. It's rich, a great joy."

In answer to a question, he said he has never been attacked while long-distance riding.

"Off my bicycle, I've been scammed and robbed. On my bicycle, it's peace," he said.

In Colombia, for example, a country often tough on tourists, he found that bicycling is a respected sport, like soccer.

"I was treated wonderfully," he said. "In most countries, a bicycle, for some reason, doesn't attract bad people. And God looks after fools."

Others had specific questions about biking across India.

"What did you do about bathrooms?" one woman asked.

"I went into the fields, like a lot of other people," he said.

Chicago Sun Times Road Rage Verdict

Driver guilty of mowing down
cyclist

December 5, 2001

BY CARLOS SADOVI CRIMINAL COURTS REPORTER

A jury on Tuesday found a Bellwood man guilty of using his Chevy
Tahoe SUV to intentionally run down a bicyclist in 1999 in a fit of
road rage.

As the verdict was read to a packed courtroom after two days of
deliberations, the family of Carnell Fitzpatrick wailed and cried out.
Fitzpatrick, 31, could face up to 60 years in prison after the jury
found him guilty of first-degree murder.

Tom McBride, 26, was killed on April 26, 1999, as he rode his
bicycle from his Oak Park home to his job in the Loop as a bicycle
messenger.

Prosecutors argued that Fitzpatrick intentionally mowed down
McBride, while defense lawyers argued the death was an accident.

''When you have a 3-ton vehicle and maybe a 20-pound bicycle
there is no even match, it's very skewed,'' Assistant Cook County
State's Attorney Lynda Peters said. ''The message that is sent by this
verdict is that bicycles have the right to be out there. Tom McBride
had the right to be on that road.'' She said it was the first
vehicle-bike road rage case to be tried in Cook County.

Prosecutors said Fitzpatrick ran into McBride after the cyclist
slapped his hand on the hood of the SUV and swore at Fitzpatrick
who had nearly hit him as they traveled along the 5300 block of
West Washington.

A key witness told police and a grand jury that he saw Fitzpatrick
nearly hit McBride with his truck and then drive after him. Jerry
Carter III, however, recanted his testimony during the trial when it
was revealed that he had been threatened for speaking out.

Prosecutors then presented Carter's grand jury testimony and
statements he made to police on the day McBride died.

Jurors said that during their deliberations they compared Fitzpatrick's
truck to a weapon.

''We didn't believe Carnell wanted to murder him but he made a
decision to go after him by his actions,'' said a juror, who asked that
his name not be used.

During the nearly 16 hours of deliberations, jurors grappled with
possibly convicting Fitzpatrick of reckless homicide, a lesser offense.

They also said Carter's first statements to police and the grand jury
were more believable than his recantation and that witness testimony
by two other men backed up Carter's initial claims.

''We felt something was up,'' a juror said.

Fitzpatrick's family and friends were too upset to discuss the verdict.

''This is the wrong time to ask someone when their son has been
convicted of murder,'' a family member said.

But McBride's family applauded assistant state's attorneys Patrick
Kelly and Peters, who tried the case.

''The prosecutors did a great job, we are grateful to them,''
McBride's mother Mary Ellen said.

Nearly a half dozen of McBride's fellow bike messengers and other
bicyclists rode to the courthouse every day of the weeklong trial.

The verdict should send a message that cars must be more careful of
bicyclists' rights on the road, said George Christensen, a bike
messenger. He and McBride worked for the same company for
nearly seven years.

''It's nice to have this on the record, it's assurance that the law is
on our side,'' Christensen said. ''Vehicles are murder weapons. Had he
used a gun it would have been more clear cut.''

While McBride may have exacerbated the confrontation when he
swore at Fitzpatrick and hit his truck, it's something that bicycle
messengers grapple with every day. Along with bags and helmets
many carry repellent for protection against drivers, he said.

''When you're nearly killed out there, it's hard to let that pass,'' he
said as he broke down in tears. ''The toughest day was the day after
he was killed. He really liked being a messenger, I could feel his
presence that day.''

Chicago Tribune Road Rage Verdict

Cyclist's death was murder, jury decides

December 05, 2001|By Kirsten Scharnberg, Chicago Tribune staff reporter

In an emotional end to a complicated trial, Carnell Fitzpatrick was found guilty of first-degree murder Tuesday in a case Cook County prosecutors have called the first local incident of road rage in which a bicyclist was killed by an angry driver intent on seeking revenge for a minor traffic dispute.

"When you have a three-ton vehicle and maybe a 20-pound bicycle, that is no even match," Assistant State's Atty. Lynda Peters said moments after the verdict. "It's very skewed.

The verdict came after a Cook County jury had deliberated for more than 16 hours over two days. During that time, they had sent the judge a note asking for legal clarification about the definition of reckless homicide. The jury had been given the option of convicting Fitzpatrick on the lesser charge. They also were allowed to view for a second time a videotaped statement given by an eyewitness to the April 26, 1999, accident that left bike messenger Tom McBride, 26, dead.
Fitzpatrick, 31, faces 20 to 60 years in prison. He had been out of jail on bond throughout the five-day trial but was taken into custody after the ruling. He sobbed as sheriff's deputies led him from the courtroom.

In the courtroom gallery, emotions were high on both sides of the aisle. Before the verdict was announced, a half dozen courthouse deputies came into the room, standing in the center of the room, between those who were there in support of Fitzpatrick and those who were family, friends and former colleagues of McBride.

When the verdict came, Fitzpatrick's wife screamed and ran from the room. Her sobs could still be heard inside the courtroom as Judge Kenneth J. Wadas polled the jury.

In the front row, Robert McBride, the victim's father, quietly shook and cried. His wife, Mary Ellen, leaned against a son, tears running down her cheeks.

"We're grateful for them," Mary Ellen McBride said of the state's attorney's office as she left the courtroom. "They put on an outstanding case."

One of the primary elements of the trial had been the eyewitness testimony of Jerry Carter III, a Chicago man who had been jogging near the scene of the accident in the 5300 block of West Washington Boulevard.

During pretrial motions, Carter had refused to testify about what he had told police and later a grand jury: that he had seen Fitzpatrick deliberately run down McBride after the cyclist shouted curse words during a near-collision. He had also refused to testify during the trial and had done so under orders of the judge, recanting what he had earlier told authorities.

Carter had claimed he had been threatened to not testify and had warned prosecutors that he would lie on the stand. Peters, one of the two prosecutors, said after the trial that the state's attorney's office has no plans to pursue perjury charges against Carter.

Throughout much of the trial, the courtroom was packed with Chicago-area bike messengers and sport cyclists. After the verdict, George Christensen broke down as he talked about McBride, a Chicago bike messenger for seven years with whom Christensen had worked for many years.

"My toughest day of messengering--through extreme cold, extreme heat, whatever--was the day after he was killed," Christensen said in the hallway outside Courtroom 301. "I could really feel his presence that day."

Christensen said he hoped the verdict would send a signal to drivers that "vehicles are murder weapons." He added that he thought the trial's outcome would give "bicyclists a little insurance that the law is on their side."

"It could have happened to any of us," he said. "We've all had these confrontations."

Fitzpatrick's lawyer, veteran defense attorney Sam Adam, declined to comment on the verdict.

Fitzpatrick, who was transported to the Cook County Jail, is due back in court on Jan. 15 for post-trial motions and possibly sentencing.

Stockholm 2 (Museuming)

Friends: I've just finished off my 24-hour pass to the museums of Stockholm and I'm exhausted. I didn't get to all 70, but I saw lots, including some totally unexpected sites that were so remarkable they almost had me staggering in disbelief. One was a mammoth Viking ship three-fourths the length of a football field that sank upon its Stockholm launch in 1628. It remained buried in the cold preserving muck of the harbor for 333 years until it was hauled up in 1961 and was meticulously restored to its original state. It looked sparkling new and ready to sail. It was adorned with countless brightly varnished carvings and had several layers of cannons all round. Viewing it was like being transported back in time. I was struck numb by its magnificence and before I knew it 90 minutes had passed, much more time than I had allotted for it. It was one of those museums I only meant to just stick my head in for a quick look-see. I had no idea what awaited me. I could have spent all day there. That ship was easily one of the most boggling things I have ever seen.



I knew nothing else I might see in the slew of museums ahead could compare, but I still saw much that also came close to sweeping my feet out from under me. The Maritime Museum with its astounding array of hundreds of model ships from all eras was one of those. So too was the Armaments Museum. A panel from Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights" was in the entryway and just past were several primates reenacting the opening to Kubrick's "2001." Abba, Sweden's most famous pop group, was featured in two museums. The Music Museum has a permanent exhibit devoted to the four-some, while the sprawling Nordica Museum had a special exhibit, which included a 45-minute documentary. Abba was also mentioned on the two island cruises I took. We passed their recording studio on one and on the other we passed the mansion of one of its members.

I hiked up the 106-meter tower at City Hall, the highest point in downtown Stockholm. The Nobel banquet is held in its magnificent hall, worthy of a royal palace and large enough to seat 1,300 people. I took the free tour. It was mind-blowing to hear anecdotes of the countless luminaries who had been honored there. This year is the 100th anniversary of the prize. The banquet is held on Dec. 10 every year, the anniversary of Nobel's death. The tallest building in all of Scandinavia, a 155-meter TV Tower, lies on the outskirts of the city. My museum pass entitled me to the elevator ride to its summit. It gave an excellent perspective on the 14 islands that comprise Stockholm and all its waterways. One could gaze out towards the Baltic. All told there are 24,000 islands in the archipelago.


The city is one-third water, one-third greenery and one-third urbanity. From up high it didn't seem so dauntingly huge. There are about 1.6 million people in the surrounding area. I can still get lost a bit in my meanderings, but I can generally find a landmark and get unlost within a couple of minutes. I've still got a day-and-a half of exploring to do. My 24-hour pass didn't start until noon yesterday, as the first few museums neglected to stamp it. When they passed it through a scanner I thought that registered its initial use, but that wasn't the case. So I got a couple extra hours out of it on the front end, and a few extra on the back end, as I saved my entry into one of the vaster areas until five minutes before the card was to expire.



I'd still like to see the Strindberg Museum and the recently opened Nobel Museum, which weren't included on the card. Plus I'd like to see the Changing of the Guard again. It went on for 45-minutes and included a full-fledged marching band that put on a show as good as any half-time show at an American football game--Superbowl or otherwise. They marched around with pronounced steps and head movements and twirling of instruments and precision movements. The throngs watching gave them boisterous applause at the end of each number. Some even clapped along with the music.



When I return to the hostel at the end of each day, the first thing I do is to check that my bike box is still under my bed. It had gone missing once. One of the managers didn't realize what it was and had put it out with the garbage. Fortunately I was there in time to rescue it. I'd be sunk without it. My departure is at eight a.m. Monday. If it turns up missing Sunday, when no bike shops are open, I'll be quite perturbed. It would be quite a challenge to convince Air Poland to take my bike unboxed or to scrounge around the airport early Monday morning hoping to find an abandoned box or an airline that provides them that would let me have one of theirs. I also have the concern of sleeping through my four a.m. alarm. I have to bike a mile-and-a-half, dragging the box, to the bus terminal, where the day's first bus to the airport departs at 6 a.m. I'll pack up the bike at the bus terminal. I shouldn't be too worried, as everything has worked out just fine so far. It has been another sensational trip.

Later, George

Stockholm, Sweden

Friends: I just walked into the public library at 10:30 this morning across the street from my hostel and there were half-a-dozen unoccupied Internet terminals and no directives prohibiting emails. There is no sign-up sheet, just signs that say 15-minute limit if anyone is waiting. Stockholm is great. I even had an escort in to town, sparing me the usual frustration of trying to find my bearings and having to pull out my map every few minutes. A woman cyclist came up alongside me on the bicycle path on the outskirts of the city and asked, as every cyclist should seeing someone on an overloaded bike, "Where have you been?" She was an Australian who'd been living in Stockholm for two years and travels extensively. In fact, she was about to leave for a month of wind-surfing in Spain. We pedaled and chatted for 20 minutes, all the way to a hostel that she recommended. I'm not sure how close I was to apartment-sitting. That was too much to hope for. And if I had, I would have missed out on meeting some more fascinating travelers. The hostel has one large 40-bed dorm. The friendliest guy there, also an Australian, who's been living in London the past two years, said I was lucky not to have arrived Monday or Tuesday, as every bed in every hostel was filled with Swedes from all over the country, who had come to town for a couple of U2 concerts. Right now, the hostel is only half-full. Bed and breakfast is a bargain at eight dollars. The Aussie too is an ardent traveler. He's just embarking on a four-month tour of Scandinavia and Eastern Europe. He's been here a couple of days and told me all sorts of things I ought to see. He particularly recommended the Changing of the Guard. He said it makes London's look rinky-dinky. Last summer he spent six months exploring Western Europe. He enthusiastically recounted his affection for Barcelona and Copenhagen and Seville and on and on. Meeting such people is one of the joys of travel. I thought I'd have to wait until Sunday morning to have the streets of Stockholm to myself. But I forgot that its light until all hours, and I could go out in the evening and pretty much have the city to myself. At nine p.m. I took a slow meander around town, orienting myself and making all sorts of wonderful discoveries. I kept at it until 10.30 and look forward to more of the same tonight. Stockholm is a series of fourteen islands ranging in size from a few acres to many square miles. There aren't as many bike ways or bicyclists as in Amsterdam or Rotterdam, but more than Berlin and certainly anywhere in the US. The traffic is quite moderate, making the biking almost carefree. I was among the first at the tourist office this morning inquiring about the museum pass. The one-day twenty dollar version will allow me admission to some 70 museums and sites and two cruises. The time period of the pass doesn't start upon purchase, but rather when it is first used. And from that point on it is good for 24 hours. It will be quite a challenge narrowing down what I will try to see in that period. It will take a while to plot my strategy. I will definitely include the two cruises, using them as an opportunity to rest my legs. Among the curiosities are the Abba collection at the Music Museum and the horrors of smoking at the Tobacco Museum. Priorities right now are confirming my airline ticket and finding a bike box. Maybe Air Poland will give me another $200 to change my flight, as they did at my departure from O'Hare. Later, George

Jacobsberg, Sweden

Friends: I'm closing in on Stockholm, taking advantage of a suburban library before I finish off the last few miles of my circuit of Scandinavia. Tonight I will sleep in doors for the first time in forty nights. My final night of camping last night may have been my best. There was such a thick layer of pine needles on the forest floor I hardly needed my sleeping pad. And the pine needles were thick enough that there was little brush to wade through as I pushed deep enough into the forest to get away from the sound of traffic on the small country lane I had been riding. More than ever, it was hard to quit riding. It was a windless, cool evening on a quiet country road, barely one-lane wide. My heart wanted to continue all the way to Stockholm, 60 miles further, and I heard no objections from my legs, just my better sense. What would I do arriving in Stockholm at two a.m. There was light enough to do it, though someone told me the other day that it almost gets dark at two a.m. now, at least for a moment before it starts getting lighter. Among other things, this trip will be remembered as the trip I never saw a sun rise or sun set, just that dangling orange orb just above the horizon at midnight at the Nordkapp on the Solstice. It will also be remembered for all the tunnels of Norway. I finally got my hands on the book that details them all--over 700. Bicycles are banned from about a quarter of them, mostly in the southern part of the country where there is more traffic and more options of getting around them. Of the 60 or so I went through, I only had to break the law once. I will particularly remember how cold the tunnels could be, and how I had to debate whether to stop and put on a jacket before I entered each. If it was less than quarter mile long and I only needed to spend a minute or two in their deep freeze, I didn't want to bother to stop. It wasn't just one stop, as there'd be another when I emerged from the tunnel to remove the wrap. If I was really warmed up, and knew that I had warmth awaiting me when I exited the tunnel, I might raise the distance to half a mile or more. I never saw ice in a tunnel, but the temperature often felt very close to freezing. Two days ago when I took a tour of the copper mine in Falun there were warnings that the temperature was 43 degrees at the bottom of the mine shaft we would descend. The tour lasted an hour and the cold never penetrated like that of those tunnels. There were no miners to be seen, as the mine had closed down in 1992 after over 1,000 years of operation. It was such an important part of the Swedish economy that it was a tradition for the King of Sweden to pay it a visit. For many years an army regiment was stationed in Falun to guard it. As I approach the greatest concentration of people I will have encountered in the past 3,000 miles, the scavenging along the road has intensified. I found six water bottles in one stretch that recently hosted a bicycle race. I have more water bottles than I need, here and at home, but I can never resist more, especially when they are of high profile European racing teams. The prize was a Farm Frites bottle, a team that competes in the Tour de France. Several of the bottles had high-tech caps new to me. I also found an allen wrench in the same stretch. Elsewhere I found a nine-dollar Swedish girly magazine. Not all were blonds. As my tour winds down, I can begin looking forward to the next one, not only to be back on the road, but also for the opportunity to relive this one. I am eager to find out what I will remember most. Whenever I set out on a new tour, I have a rush of memories of my most recent tour, the latest and freshest batch just waiting to be perused. I spend so much time dwelling on tours past as I'm riding, I'm not always aware of the uniqueness of my present circumstances. And also as I'm living it, so fully immersed in a country and culture different from my own, some things become so commonplace I no longer take note of them. I hardly pay attention to the odd sight of cross-country skiers on wheels along the highway training, poling along, at first a most incongruous sight that had me shaking my head in wonderment. I know I'll think back with great fondness during all future tours at not having to race a setting sun to find a place to camp or to be in any particular rush to get started in the morning to maximize the daylight. Twenty-four hours of light is an unimaginable luxury. I'll fondly recall fish paste on Wasa crackers and Norway's banana-mango yogurt. When food seems expensive, I can remember the $13 hamburger in the Arctic of Norway, knowing it could be worse. I'm still trying to negotiate my way into downtown Stockholm. I have to stop every 15 or 20 minutes to study the map. A police officer just told me about a bike path that follows the nearby train tracks that will lead me a good ways into town. And then I'll have the challenge of finding one of the six hostels Lonely Planet recommends. Hopefully I'll end up at one with Internet. If not, I can come back here if its not too complicated, as there are four computers that people can be on for 15 minutes, or longer if no one is waiting. I'm also hoping to find a sports bar to watch the Tour de France. The last three hours of it are broadcast live every afternoon on some cable channel. And there will be plenty to see in Stockholm the next four days. There are also worthy sites I can bicycle to within 15 or 20 miles. I'm especially looking forward to Sunday morning when no one will be out and the town will be mine to explore. I ought to know it well by then. It has been a pleasure to be able to share this experience almost on a daily basis thanks to the Internet. I look forward to finding a computer to be able to unleash all those thoughts that have been whirling through my head all day on the bike. It has been impossible to be lonely with so much to occupy my thought. This has been my first Internet tour. It has greatly enhanced the experience, concentrating my thoughts, knowing I'll have the chance to type them out rather than jot them down in a journal. In past tours of more than a month I was lucky to get any mail along the way. Those occasions were always a highlight. I can well remember receiving three letters in Kathmandu after not having had any in over a month since Calcutta. I was looking forward to that mail for weeks. Now I can hear from friends on a daily basis. Later, George

Sala, Sweden

Friends: I was bound for Orebro and its spectacular castle, the most photographed in Sweden, when the road suddenly banned bicycles, and I had to take another route to Stockholm. Now that I'm within 100 miles of Stockholm, the countryside has grown more densely populated, and the motorways that were once open to all traffic are now more like Interstates with 70 mile per hour speed limits and entrance and exit ramps, even though they are only two-lanes wide. The alternate roads are sleepy, winding country lanes that were laid out centuries ago. They make for idyllic cycling, but they are anything but direct and their surfaces are very inconsistent. The 110 miles from Falun to Orebro via the direct route piecing together one tiny road after another would have been overly time-consuming, requiring lots of map-reading to figure out which way to go. The terrain here is much hillier than Finland, so the roads are not laid out on a grid, rather following the contours of the land, other than the motorways that were carved straight through only recently. Today's overcast sky has given me flashbacks to my days and days of rain. I'll occasionally glance at an oncoming car and catch myself checking to see if its windshield wipers are wiping, as became a habit back when the rain alternated between mist and drizzle and I wasn't sure what it was doing. One of the joys of traveling by bike is losing myself in thought, then suddenly being jarred back to reality. When I am back in the now, I can consciously reflect back on what other journey my thought has just taken me. I've been at this over a month now but I still have an occasional panic attack that something is missing. "What could it be," I frantically ask myself, then realize that my back is bare and I'm not wearing my messenger bag. Before I'm plunged too deeply into despair over the loss of my bag, I remember that I'm not messengering, but touring, and feel greatly relieved. Other times I'm struck by the horror that I've lost the key to my Kryptonite lock. The key dangles from a cord I wear like a bracelet on my right wrist when I'm messengering so the key is right there and I don't have to dig into my pocket for it the couple of hundred times a day I have to lock and unlock my bike. It is a tremendous time-safer. That key on a cord becomes an integral appendage. Occasionally, as I'm touring, my subconscious will file a report that my bracelet and key are missing and that I am sunk. And then I remember it hasn't slipped off my wrist, as I'm in Scandinavia touring and not back in Chicago riding like a maniac making deliveries, and that it's okay to be riding bare-backed and bare-wristed. I had a flashback to India this morning as I was bathing in the shallows of a lake. I needed a morning bath as no lake presented itself yesterday evening. One of the constants of India was coming upon Indian men in the morning hours bathing beside a pond or river or pool or from a faucet in the city, using a small bowl to pour water over themselves. They'd vigorously scrub themselves with a wash cloth. The lake I was beside was too rocky to venture into, so I used my Tupperware bowl, that I had breakfasted out of an hour earlier, to pour water over me Indian-style. It is the same Tupperware bowl that I would frequently put a meal in while in India, if the restaurant I was eating in became too over run with gawking Indians. I'd flee to the countryside to eat in relative peace. I have almost as much fondness for my Tupperware bowl as I do for my neckerchiefs, two of my most valuable possessions when I'm off traveling by bicycle. Later, George