When I’m not measuring lung volumes, I’m measuring how many innings of Sox bullpen collapse my pulmonary system can withstand. These are the places I keep going back to anyway: parks, rinks, and fields where the air is rarely fresh, the beer is never cheap, and the heart rate variability is…robust. Consider this a treatment plan for chronic Chicago sports exposure with no known cure.
Green Line to Sox–35th, inhale grilled onions, exhale existential dread by the 7th. Still my preferred setting for watching professional disappointment in a controlled environment.
Near West Side temple of controlled hypertension. Good for Bulls runs, Hawks rebuilds, and pretending you’ll actually take the stairs instead of the escalator this time.
North Side lung function lab: sun exposure, pollen, and Old Style. Go for the ivy and the history; stay because the Red Line is somehow always delayed when you’re ready to leave.
Wind tunnel by the lake where the Bears test the cardiac reserve of the entire city. Dress in layers, hydrate, accept that emotional hypothermia is part of the experience.
Two sheets of ice and a lot of people pretending 6 a.m. hockey is self-care. Convenient to the hospital, so I can go from clinic to slapshots without changing my baseline level of chaos.
North Side soccer compound where everyone’s quads are fine and everyone’s ankles are one bad plant away from radiology. Great for rec leagues and post-game wheezing in the parking lot.
High school stadium with pro-level nostalgia. Feels like a controlled throwback study on why we all fell for this sport before we learned what a bullpen ERA is.
TheLysts
