First, an admission. For all its connotations of pale, nerdy guys huddled in a basement, arguing over how to slay a dragon and severely disconnected from reality, Dungeons & Dragons is actually a beautiful metaphorical representation of life.
Sure, it's formulated in a fantastic world, and I would never need to battle a goblin in real life, but the underlying premises are the same. You have to work in groups with teammates who each have personal talents and flaws. You need to accomplish particular tasks, and your success (or failure) depends on how skilled you are, with some allowances for random luck or misfortune. Solutions are not always clear-cut, and the consequences of your actions are not immediately apparent. In fact, when you think about it, DnD, like economics, transforms everyday interactions into quantifiable mathematical equations. However, there is still plenty of room for open-ended creativity.Hence, the inherent appeal for us Feddies.
Phil started us off on an adventure titled "The Sunless Citadel," which is supposed to help ease newbies into the game. There were 5 of us who were new role-players, plus Amber, who knew what she was doing, and saved our asses on several occasions by dutifully checking for snares and traps. Right off the bat, I could see how people get caught up in ludicrous, hour-long debates over how to cross a bridge. We were told that there was an ancient citadel which was ripe for exploration, but Phineas (Erik) wanted to try helping the dying wife of a villager instead, which I deemed to be a waste of time. (We're all level 1 characters, so Phineas' healing powers consist of healing "minor wounds.") Meanwhile, Yocxjufyabiu (Nate wrote a random name generator) the sorcerer was bent on casting spells left and right, and decided to "animate a rope" to be very stiff and sturdy while we climbed down into a ravine. Combat rounds were taking an hour to resolve, in part because no one knew how to add up points and modifiers, so Phil had to help us do all the math. I did roll a 20 during combat (the highest point value), though I didn't get the critical hit. After killing a few dire rats and undead goblins, we began arguing over where to set up camp for the night, and Nygavok the sensitive fighter (Chris) tried to seduce me while we were supposed to be keeping watch.
After playing for a few hours, we had to catch the train back to the city. I tend to view everything through a rational economist perspective, but I started to catch myself thinking in DnD terms. We weren't sure which direction the train was coming from, so we decided to ask a passing pedestrian. Mentally, I thought, "A stranger approaches. Does he appear trustworthy? Should we send the member of our party with the highest charisma, or the person most able to intimidate him into giving us directions?"
I also have to confess that certain web comics have become a lot funnier.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Random Acts of God
In a freak accident (very much in the vein of Wilder's Bridge of San Luis Rey), a semi-trailer truck barreled off the Dan Ryan Expressway at 5:20 pm this afternoon and into the Cermak/Chinatown red line train stop. The truck barreled through an intersection and straight into the escalator at the station. Two people died and at least 21 were injured. The driver himself was fine and left the hospital after being treated.
This is the stop that I use most frequently, and though I generally prefer to avoid trains and bike instead, today I opted to leave the bike at home because I needed to bring an apple cake into work. (It was Haley's last day of work at the Fed.)
After work, we headed to Phil's for a session of Dungeons & Dragons. Earlier, I'd decided I didn't feel like driving to Phil's because last weekend, I was the designated driver, and I wanted to have the option to drink this time. If I hadn't insisted on being an alcoholic, we would have been taking the red line to my place to pick up my car, and could easily have been on the train at that time. As I walked past the wreckage tonight, it was a sobering thought.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Seder
It's Passover, and though I'd always meant to check out Cornell's "Super Seder," I never quite got around to it. No matter, this year, we badgered our Jew-in-residence (Nate) to hold a Seder. He hadn't been really planning to celebrate, but armed with knowledge from Wikipedia, we successfully convinced him that he should host a Seder with a bunch of Gentiles. Besides, my undying love for Yonah Schimmel's and the rest of the Lower East Side should be plentiful proof of my faith in Jewish culture.
About half of us were non-Jewish, and this was the first Seder any of us had attended. Basically, a Seder dinner recounts the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, from their enslavement while building the pyramids, to the ten plagues that God rained down upon the Egyptian slavers, to the hasty departure of the Jews as they commenced wandering the desert. Grasping a Xeroxed-copy of the Haggadah, we each took turns reading as the Leader, and all joined in on Group parts. It was a great opportunity for me to practice my dramatic reading skills.
Like the Bible, the language in the text is beautiful. Actually, I've always been a fan of ancient religious texts, mostly for their obfuscating word choice and archaic grammar. In all seriousness though, biblical passages do have an eloquence to them that is rare in modern writing, and the words can sing off the page. In fact, sometimes they literally do.
This is the bread of affliction that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. Whoever is hungry, let him come and eat; whoever is in need, let him come and conduct the Seder of Passover. This year we are here; next year in the land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year we will be free people.
Ma nishtana? Why is this night different from all other nights? More than the retelling of the Exodus, Passover is a reminder of universal suffering, a plea not to forget the past injustices of history, and a message to strive for the betterment of humanity. Holiday foods usually bring to mind goodies like pumpkin pie or egg nog, but on this night, we ate in remembrance of pain and suffering. Unleavened matzah, because the Jews left so quickly their bread had no time to rise, maror (horseradish), or bitter herbs to symbolize the bitterness of slavery, charoset (a diced apple, nut and wine mixture) to represent the mortar used by Jews to construct Egyptian buildings, karpas (parsley) dipped in salt water to mirror tears.
This is not to say that the food was all terrible. The actual dinner was blessedly free of nasal-passage clearing horseradish, with matzah ball soup, couscous, eggplant parmesan and roasted chicken. Plus, the Haggadah does include instructions to drink at least four glasses of wine, and your bill for the night could be even higher if you drank more during dinner. By the fourth "official" glass of wine, we were racing to see who could chug theirs the fastest. I'm sure the prophet Elijah approved when he came to visit.
At the conclusion of Seder, we sang a few Passover songs, most notably, Chad Gadya, or "One Kid Goat." The song is structurally similar to "There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly," in that each stanza builds upon the previous one. I can only remember the last line, which was "which my father bought for two zuzim." More difficult was the constraint that each stanza must be sung in one breath. By the time verse 10 rolled around, let's just say I wished I'd been a trumpet player.
L'shana ha'ba'ah b'yerushalayim! Next year in Jerusalem!
About half of us were non-Jewish, and this was the first Seder any of us had attended. Basically, a Seder dinner recounts the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, from their enslavement while building the pyramids, to the ten plagues that God rained down upon the Egyptian slavers, to the hasty departure of the Jews as they commenced wandering the desert. Grasping a Xeroxed-copy of the Haggadah, we each took turns reading as the Leader, and all joined in on Group parts. It was a great opportunity for me to practice my dramatic reading skills.
Like the Bible, the language in the text is beautiful. Actually, I've always been a fan of ancient religious texts, mostly for their obfuscating word choice and archaic grammar. In all seriousness though, biblical passages do have an eloquence to them that is rare in modern writing, and the words can sing off the page. In fact, sometimes they literally do.
This is the bread of affliction that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. Whoever is hungry, let him come and eat; whoever is in need, let him come and conduct the Seder of Passover. This year we are here; next year in the land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year we will be free people.
Ma nishtana? Why is this night different from all other nights? More than the retelling of the Exodus, Passover is a reminder of universal suffering, a plea not to forget the past injustices of history, and a message to strive for the betterment of humanity. Holiday foods usually bring to mind goodies like pumpkin pie or egg nog, but on this night, we ate in remembrance of pain and suffering. Unleavened matzah, because the Jews left so quickly their bread had no time to rise, maror (horseradish), or bitter herbs to symbolize the bitterness of slavery, charoset (a diced apple, nut and wine mixture) to represent the mortar used by Jews to construct Egyptian buildings, karpas (parsley) dipped in salt water to mirror tears.
This is not to say that the food was all terrible. The actual dinner was blessedly free of nasal-passage clearing horseradish, with matzah ball soup, couscous, eggplant parmesan and roasted chicken. Plus, the Haggadah does include instructions to drink at least four glasses of wine, and your bill for the night could be even higher if you drank more during dinner. By the fourth "official" glass of wine, we were racing to see who could chug theirs the fastest. I'm sure the prophet Elijah approved when he came to visit.
At the conclusion of Seder, we sang a few Passover songs, most notably, Chad Gadya, or "One Kid Goat." The song is structurally similar to "There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly," in that each stanza builds upon the previous one. I can only remember the last line, which was "which my father bought for two zuzim." More difficult was the constraint that each stanza must be sung in one breath. By the time verse 10 rolled around, let's just say I wished I'd been a trumpet player.
L'shana ha'ba'ah b'yerushalayim! Next year in Jerusalem!
This is how we roll
I threw my first dinner party last night. According to "Stuff White People Like," the dinner party is definitely an adult milestone. And although I put everyone to work making their own dinner, it was still a substantial amount of preparation. Music was played, sake was swigged, and Trivial Pursuit was broken out (see SWPL post, paragraph 6).
Over the last few months, I've been learning to roll my own sushi and bringing it in for lunch. It's quite simple (and much cheaper) to do it yourself, so to demonstrate the process, I invited people over for a sushi-rolling gathering. Miso soup and salad with ginger dressing were provided. Then, I set out bowls of rice, sushi filling ingredients, nori sheets and bamboo mats, and put people to work. Everyone had a great time, and more or less successfully made their own sushi.
My first planning dilemma was figuring out what to do with the vegetarians. After all, isn't the point of sushi is to showcase fresh seafood? I ended up soaking wedges of fried tofu in a soy and orange juice marinade, then slicing them thinly. At this point, they almost looked like slices of mushroom, and tasted quite meaty as well. My second dilemma was trying to predict how much rice we would need. Depending on how much of the soup and salad everyone consumed, we would need an inversely proportional amount of rice. I prepared a large bowl of sushi rice, but sure enough, the rice disappeared much faster than predicted. (People were using too much rice in their rolls, a common novice mistake.) In the end, I made about 12 cups of rice, and this was enough to make leftover sushi for Monday.
Cleaning the sushi mats was the most painstaking part of the night. Rather than spending 20 minutes scraping off chunks of dried rice, next time I plan to wrap the entire mat in saran wrap.
Post-sushi-rolling, we trekked out to the 'burbs for Phil's birthday party. Now, I consider myself a pretty good cook, but this party was the most impressive food feat I've seen in years. As we know, Phil is a huge gamer, and Amber (Phil's wife) had made sure that all the food was video-game-themed. Zomg! There were red mushroom cupcakes, green ice cream cone pipes, a Pac-man cheddar cheese wheel, a fire flower made of red and yellow peppers with a cucumber and broccoli stem, a Zelda Triforce cheesecake, and finally, a Katamari ball rice crispie cake, with all kinds of candies (lego sweet tarts, gummy worms) stuck on the surface. It was probably the leetest party I've ever been to, and proof that we should all rest easy; clearly there is someone out there for everyone.
It's too bad we couldn't get the entire table in one panoramic shot, but these pictures convey the general idea.
Over the last few months, I've been learning to roll my own sushi and bringing it in for lunch. It's quite simple (and much cheaper) to do it yourself, so to demonstrate the process, I invited people over for a sushi-rolling gathering. Miso soup and salad with ginger dressing were provided. Then, I set out bowls of rice, sushi filling ingredients, nori sheets and bamboo mats, and put people to work. Everyone had a great time, and more or less successfully made their own sushi.
My first planning dilemma was figuring out what to do with the vegetarians. After all, isn't the point of sushi is to showcase fresh seafood? I ended up soaking wedges of fried tofu in a soy and orange juice marinade, then slicing them thinly. At this point, they almost looked like slices of mushroom, and tasted quite meaty as well. My second dilemma was trying to predict how much rice we would need. Depending on how much of the soup and salad everyone consumed, we would need an inversely proportional amount of rice. I prepared a large bowl of sushi rice, but sure enough, the rice disappeared much faster than predicted. (People were using too much rice in their rolls, a common novice mistake.) In the end, I made about 12 cups of rice, and this was enough to make leftover sushi for Monday.
Cleaning the sushi mats was the most painstaking part of the night. Rather than spending 20 minutes scraping off chunks of dried rice, next time I plan to wrap the entire mat in saran wrap.
Post-sushi-rolling, we trekked out to the 'burbs for Phil's birthday party. Now, I consider myself a pretty good cook, but this party was the most impressive food feat I've seen in years. As we know, Phil is a huge gamer, and Amber (Phil's wife) had made sure that all the food was video-game-themed. Zomg! There were red mushroom cupcakes, green ice cream cone pipes, a Pac-man cheddar cheese wheel, a fire flower made of red and yellow peppers with a cucumber and broccoli stem, a Zelda Triforce cheesecake, and finally, a Katamari ball rice crispie cake, with all kinds of candies (lego sweet tarts, gummy worms) stuck on the surface. It was probably the leetest party I've ever been to, and proof that we should all rest easy; clearly there is someone out there for everyone.
It's too bad we couldn't get the entire table in one panoramic shot, but these pictures convey the general idea.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Quake!
Last night at 4 am or so, I rolled over in my sleep, and awoke with the startling realization that my legs were shaking. Small vibrations, as if the neighbors were having a party with subwoofers in frequencies that I somehow couldn't hear. The thought that I might have some sort of crazy neurological disorder (multiple sclerosis? Parkinson's?) crossed my mind. The vibrations went on for 15 or 20 seconds, and then, brushing it off as a dream, I went back to sleep.
Still disconcerted the next morning, I went to my computer and googled "sleeping motion sensation." After some quick browsing, I came to this conclusion: I was coming down with restless leg syndrome. Oy!
Then, I went to work and someone mentioned the 5.2 magnitude earthquake that rattled Illinois last night. It was a reminder that on a geological scale, we are all but specks on a wall.
Still disconcerted the next morning, I went to my computer and googled "sleeping motion sensation." After some quick browsing, I came to this conclusion: I was coming down with restless leg syndrome. Oy!
Then, I went to work and someone mentioned the 5.2 magnitude earthquake that rattled Illinois last night. It was a reminder that on a geological scale, we are all but specks on a wall.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Dungeons & Dragons
Well, I never thought I'd say this, but the line has been crossed and left far behind in the dust, so I may as well announce: I am playing Dungeons and Dragons. Somehow, the idea sprang up at the lunch table, and so, Phil is guiding a few of us neophytes through the process of playing a role-playing game.
At this point, some of you are cheering wildly and mentally upping my nerd score, while everyone else is inwardly grimacing or scratching their head. DnD, isn't that the game played by those kids in high school who carried around bags of dice and wore dragon necklaces and drew fairies in notebooks and claimed they were Wiccan? Yeah, that game.
As it turns out, DnD is not really a game in the traditional sense, but more like collective story-telling. Each person assumes the role of a character, and that character interacts with a fictional world and other members of that world. Furthermore, this world includes plenty of fantastic powers (spell casting, exotic weapons) and mythological threats (dragons, orcs) to keep things interesting. It's much more creative than I had imagined, and frankly, I'm surprised that more girls never got around to playing. (Isn't this what we're supposed to be good at? Playing make-believe?)
Over the last few weeks, we've gradually been schooled in the process of character generation, coming up with various personality traits and numeric statistics. For the final bit, I came up with the following back story for my character. After all this effort, let's hope I don't die when we get together in Phil's basement next weekend.
Daevon Nimvirrea Ansatz, 178, was born to a moderately wealthy family of spice merchants in Waterdeep. Her mother died at an early age, and as an only child, Daevon grew up strong-willed and independent. Noting her interest in nature and wildlife, her father tried to channel this energy into horsemanship and gardening. This backfired when local authorities discovered that the garden plot was filled with poppy plants. For her part, Daevon insisted upon her innocence and said that she had simply wanted a field full of crimson blooms. One summer, a band of gypsies set up camp on the outskirts of town. Daevon became fast friends with the children and adopted Mama Mirela as her own. When fall approached and the gypsies were readying for the winter move, Daevon opted to skip school and leave with the gypsies. Over the next few years, she roamed much of the High Forest, and the gypsy elders taught her how to purify water, track and hunt animals, identify edible plants and the like. With her nimble fingers, she became an expert archer, and those who crossed her might see their hats whisked away by arrows.
When Mama Mirela died, Daevon silently mourned her passing as the mother she’d never had. Then, she opted to leave dry land for a spell at sea, working a stint as a deckhand on a crab fishing schooner. Though she spent most of her time cleaning and sorting the catch, she had a stellar eye for navigation and learned to track the movements of the constellations. After two seasons in the Sea of Moving ice, Daevon decided she’d had enough of laboring 24-hour shifts in wet, freezing conditions, and at the next port, she took off with her trunk over her shoulder.
Currently, Daevon works as a sherpa at the base of the Nether mountains. The pay is high, but the work is mundane and she is itching to travel again. Occasionally, she does meet interesting travelers, who bring her news from the coasts. Last week, a druid by the name of Phineas Crumplebeard passed through, en route to Icewind Dale. Though she paid little attention as he babbled about his exploits, Daevon was duly impressed when he successfully healed a sprained ankle of hers.
At this point, some of you are cheering wildly and mentally upping my nerd score, while everyone else is inwardly grimacing or scratching their head. DnD, isn't that the game played by those kids in high school who carried around bags of dice and wore dragon necklaces and drew fairies in notebooks and claimed they were Wiccan? Yeah, that game.
As it turns out, DnD is not really a game in the traditional sense, but more like collective story-telling. Each person assumes the role of a character, and that character interacts with a fictional world and other members of that world. Furthermore, this world includes plenty of fantastic powers (spell casting, exotic weapons) and mythological threats (dragons, orcs) to keep things interesting. It's much more creative than I had imagined, and frankly, I'm surprised that more girls never got around to playing. (Isn't this what we're supposed to be good at? Playing make-believe?)
Over the last few weeks, we've gradually been schooled in the process of character generation, coming up with various personality traits and numeric statistics. For the final bit, I came up with the following back story for my character. After all this effort, let's hope I don't die when we get together in Phil's basement next weekend.
Daevon Nimvirrea Ansatz, 178, was born to a moderately wealthy family of spice merchants in Waterdeep. Her mother died at an early age, and as an only child, Daevon grew up strong-willed and independent. Noting her interest in nature and wildlife, her father tried to channel this energy into horsemanship and gardening. This backfired when local authorities discovered that the garden plot was filled with poppy plants. For her part, Daevon insisted upon her innocence and said that she had simply wanted a field full of crimson blooms. One summer, a band of gypsies set up camp on the outskirts of town. Daevon became fast friends with the children and adopted Mama Mirela as her own. When fall approached and the gypsies were readying for the winter move, Daevon opted to skip school and leave with the gypsies. Over the next few years, she roamed much of the High Forest, and the gypsy elders taught her how to purify water, track and hunt animals, identify edible plants and the like. With her nimble fingers, she became an expert archer, and those who crossed her might see their hats whisked away by arrows.
When Mama Mirela died, Daevon silently mourned her passing as the mother she’d never had. Then, she opted to leave dry land for a spell at sea, working a stint as a deckhand on a crab fishing schooner. Though she spent most of her time cleaning and sorting the catch, she had a stellar eye for navigation and learned to track the movements of the constellations. After two seasons in the Sea of Moving ice, Daevon decided she’d had enough of laboring 24-hour shifts in wet, freezing conditions, and at the next port, she took off with her trunk over her shoulder.
Currently, Daevon works as a sherpa at the base of the Nether mountains. The pay is high, but the work is mundane and she is itching to travel again. Occasionally, she does meet interesting travelers, who bring her news from the coasts. Last week, a druid by the name of Phineas Crumplebeard passed through, en route to Icewind Dale. Though she paid little attention as he babbled about his exploits, Daevon was duly impressed when he successfully healed a sprained ankle of hers.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Cyclical Adventures
On my way to work this morning, I saw a bike get stolen. It was efficient, it was brazen, it was almost imperceptible.
The problem with bicycles is that it is nearly impossible to deter a determined thief. Even if the frame is secured, it doesn't take much time or hardware to disassemble valuable parts. If you lock a bike's frame to a bike rack, you are still leaving your wheels exposed, many of which come with quick-release latches. Then there are all sorts of peripheral parts that can walk away. In the last 6 months, I have seen a friend get his seat stolen, and another friend had her disc brakes and front wheel stolen (though she didn't notice at first because the thief helpfully replaced the wheel). Bikes are particularly vulnerable in high-traffic urban areas. In a classic tale of New Haven sketchiness, Yalie friends told me that one time a bike was locked to a stop sign, and when the owner returned, the bike AND the stop sign were gone.
By dumb luck (or misfortune), I happened to see this guy approach a bike rack, and something about his body language made me uneasy. He scanned the bikes, then moved toward one in particular and bent down to examine the rear derailleur. I kept walking down the block, throwing glances over my shoulder and feeling unsettled. Should I turn a blind eye? But what could I possibly do, make a citizen's arrest? No one else was even glancing at the guy. It was as if I were the only person who could see clearly.
I thought perhaps if I casually approached the guy, he would get skittish and leave. He was a black male, shoddily dressed and with a deformed right eye, and at this point, he was full-out loosening bolts and shifter cables. So, what are you doing, I asked. Uh, fixing the rear gear set, he mumbled. Is that yours, he asked, motioning toward an adjacent bike. No, I answered, mine's further down the street. Why don't you go get it, he asked. It's a nice day, and I like watching people work on bikes, I said. I stood there for a minute, debating what to do, watching a crime take place before my eyes.
Seeing that my presence wasn't a deterrent, I quickly walked away and asked a pedestrian what the non-emergency police number was. (It's 311, for future reference.) Another woman overheard and pointed me to an unmarked police car on the next corner. I ran over, but by the time I waved him down, a backwards glance saw the thief speeding away with his new property. The cop thanked me for "doing the right thing," and told me to just call 911 next time. This time though, it was too late.
The whole scenario took no more than 5 minutes.
The bike was locked with a standard u-lock, the same kind I use every day. I have no idea how the thief managed to defeat that, and it makes me worry that the only reason my bike hasn't been stolen so far is because it simply hasn't been targeted yet.
I should have just punched the guy. (He wasn't that big.)
As it so happens, I'd been researching road bikes for the last couple weeks, and had made arrangements to take a look at one posted on Craig's List. Road bikes are feather-light, come with flashy equipment like clipless pedals, and are generally upwards of $1,000 for entry-level bikes while competitive ones might be several grand. But Crystal, you've already got two bikes, do you honestly need a third? Well no, but I rationalized that each of my bikes would be very different (mountain, road, 3-speed), plus I was getting a nice chunk of change in the mail from my tax rebate. Thank you, President Bush.
After work, I trekked to Evanston to take a test ride on this bike. My first thought was that I was now going really, really fast. My second thought was that the aerodynamic, flattened back position would take some getting used to, and that my wrists were starting to hurt. This was quite different from riding a kid's bike, and I nearly fell over on a couple occasions. But overall, the bike handled well, and the seller included extra inner tubes ($10), a Shimano Flight Deck computer ($125), and clipless cycling shoes to boot ($100). All for the price of $625? I bit.
Somewhere along the 20-mile trek back home, I realized that this bike was too valuable to be used as a commuter bike. I didn't want to find my bike stripped of its pedals or wheels or seat, and there's no way to secure everything. I ought to invent some kind of shocking device (something taser-esque?) such that anyone getting too close to my bike would be in for a nasty surprise.
The problem with bicycles is that it is nearly impossible to deter a determined thief. Even if the frame is secured, it doesn't take much time or hardware to disassemble valuable parts. If you lock a bike's frame to a bike rack, you are still leaving your wheels exposed, many of which come with quick-release latches. Then there are all sorts of peripheral parts that can walk away. In the last 6 months, I have seen a friend get his seat stolen, and another friend had her disc brakes and front wheel stolen (though she didn't notice at first because the thief helpfully replaced the wheel). Bikes are particularly vulnerable in high-traffic urban areas. In a classic tale of New Haven sketchiness, Yalie friends told me that one time a bike was locked to a stop sign, and when the owner returned, the bike AND the stop sign were gone.
By dumb luck (or misfortune), I happened to see this guy approach a bike rack, and something about his body language made me uneasy. He scanned the bikes, then moved toward one in particular and bent down to examine the rear derailleur. I kept walking down the block, throwing glances over my shoulder and feeling unsettled. Should I turn a blind eye? But what could I possibly do, make a citizen's arrest? No one else was even glancing at the guy. It was as if I were the only person who could see clearly.
I thought perhaps if I casually approached the guy, he would get skittish and leave. He was a black male, shoddily dressed and with a deformed right eye, and at this point, he was full-out loosening bolts and shifter cables. So, what are you doing, I asked. Uh, fixing the rear gear set, he mumbled. Is that yours, he asked, motioning toward an adjacent bike. No, I answered, mine's further down the street. Why don't you go get it, he asked. It's a nice day, and I like watching people work on bikes, I said. I stood there for a minute, debating what to do, watching a crime take place before my eyes.
Seeing that my presence wasn't a deterrent, I quickly walked away and asked a pedestrian what the non-emergency police number was. (It's 311, for future reference.) Another woman overheard and pointed me to an unmarked police car on the next corner. I ran over, but by the time I waved him down, a backwards glance saw the thief speeding away with his new property. The cop thanked me for "doing the right thing," and told me to just call 911 next time. This time though, it was too late.
The whole scenario took no more than 5 minutes.
The bike was locked with a standard u-lock, the same kind I use every day. I have no idea how the thief managed to defeat that, and it makes me worry that the only reason my bike hasn't been stolen so far is because it simply hasn't been targeted yet.
I should have just punched the guy. (He wasn't that big.)
As it so happens, I'd been researching road bikes for the last couple weeks, and had made arrangements to take a look at one posted on Craig's List. Road bikes are feather-light, come with flashy equipment like clipless pedals, and are generally upwards of $1,000 for entry-level bikes while competitive ones might be several grand. But Crystal, you've already got two bikes, do you honestly need a third? Well no, but I rationalized that each of my bikes would be very different (mountain, road, 3-speed), plus I was getting a nice chunk of change in the mail from my tax rebate. Thank you, President Bush.
After work, I trekked to Evanston to take a test ride on this bike. My first thought was that I was now going really, really fast. My second thought was that the aerodynamic, flattened back position would take some getting used to, and that my wrists were starting to hurt. This was quite different from riding a kid's bike, and I nearly fell over on a couple occasions. But overall, the bike handled well, and the seller included extra inner tubes ($10), a Shimano Flight Deck computer ($125), and clipless cycling shoes to boot ($100). All for the price of $625? I bit.
Somewhere along the 20-mile trek back home, I realized that this bike was too valuable to be used as a commuter bike. I didn't want to find my bike stripped of its pedals or wheels or seat, and there's no way to secure everything. I ought to invent some kind of shocking device (something taser-esque?) such that anyone getting too close to my bike would be in for a nasty surprise.
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