“Want to go for a bike ride for coffee?” I ask.

“Sure.”

I put on my gloves and helmet and wait for my son Brendan to join me in the garage. A long bike ride is now part of my daily routine, and I love it when there is an actual destination instead of a loop. And I’m thrilled that Brendan is visiting from LA.

Brendan climbs on Tim’s bike and follows me down Lake Shore Drive along Lake Michigan through Duneland Beach, Shoreland Hills, Long Beach and Sheridan Beach. When we reach Washington Park, Brendan shouts from behind, “Mom, where are we going?”

“For coffee,” I yell back.

I park my bike at the picnic tables outside of Base Camp, a little shack designed to provide sandwiches, sunscreen and treats for the Michigan City Harbor boaters.

Brendan pulls up and exclaims, “How far did we ride?!”

“About six miles.”

“What?! Six miles!” I just nod and think what’s the big deal, and he says, “I’ll have an espresso.”

“They don’t have espresso.”

“What do you mean they don’t have espresso?! I thought you said we were riding to a coffee shop.”

“I never said we were riding to a coffee shop. I said we were riding to get coffee.”

His look is indescribable.

I ask, “Do you take cream?”

“No.”

I put on my mask, go inside, get two coffees from the pump canteen, and exit merrily. It is a beautiful day. 

I hand the basic, no-frills coffee to Brendan. He says, “We rode six miles to get plain coffee? Twelve miles round trip?”

I nod. I marvel at how differently we live, and I take in the beautiful view. I say, “I love it here. It reminds me of Dingle in County Kerry, Ireland.”

He glances over my shoulder at a monolithic coal power plant and gives me a worried look.

“You can keep Santa Monica, Brendan. I think this is the best.”

Later, I tell my son Kevin this story. Kevin asks, “Don’t you have coffee at the house?”