Imperial Palace

Tokyo's real estate comes at a significant cost, which means that while there are a few small parks scattered here and there, there is pretty much no green space other than the Imperial Palace grounds.

Unlike the analogous Central Park though, the majority of the grounds are closed to the public. I suppose that's because the Imperial Family wants their privacy, bah. Still, a large swath of the land is open year-round, admittance is free, and oh yeah, the landscaping isn't half bad either. On the outer perimeter, paths have been outlined for runners and cyclists. My visit seemed to have coincided with some sort of race, as the area was flooded with runners in spandex.

The Imperial Palace was originally built in feudal times, but over the course of centuries of war and mismanagement, the buildings were in a state of disrepair by the turn of the century. Most of the current palace was constructed in 1968, though parts of the moat and the entry gates are original pieces.

Due to popular demand, I am actually in a picture (to prove that I'm really in Japan and not simply posting photos from home.) Though this is no Taughhannock Falls, this waterfall was pretty soothing on a gorgeous 20° day. You know, this would be a great place to hide a letterbox too...

The gardens feature lots of traditional Japanese architectural elements, and the plants were labeled with their origin in Japan.

All of this was even more amazing when you thought about how close modern Tokyo was to this oasis of tranquility. The palace is pretty much in the shadows of Tokyo Tower.

This light seems rather out of place to me, and looks rather Victorian, or perhaps Narnian when you factor in the lion's heads.

The guardhouse housed 100 of the best, most loyal samurai.

Detail on the roof

The moat contains some very, very large koi. These were at least the length of my arm, which makes me think that the urban legend about fish growing proportionally to the size of their tank might be true.

The moat also contains seven swans a-swimming.

The Meganebashi (eyeglasses) bridge is a double-barreled bridge that is named for its shape.

Did you notice any photos of the Imperial Palace itself? Yeah, me neither. The family is notoriously reclusive, and save for New Year's Day and December 23rd (the Emperor's birthday), the rest of the grounds are closed to the public. The Imperial Museum was however featuring an exhibit on the personal effects of the royal family, so I got to ogle the royal hand washing equipment (looks like fancy tea kettles), kimonos, harp (the Empress apparently likes Mozart) and journal articles (the Emperor has published research in ichthyology).

On Sundays, from 10 am to 3 pm, the koban (police box) at Uchibori-dori gives out bikes for riding in a circuit near the palace grounds. The roads are closed off to traffic, so it is very safe for children and geared towards people wanting a leisurely ride, as opposed to triathletes. I decided to take advantage of this and checked out the above bike, which is a bit less badass than my usual rides, a single speed bike equipped with a pedestrian bell and basket. Oh well, it was good to be on two wheels again. Too bad the route is only 3 km long, so I was done in about 15 minutes. I will also mention that bike security here is extremely lax; about 50% of bikes are locked with a small cable lock (if you did that in the Loop...lolol) and the other 50% are just unlocked. Compare this to Paris, which is having a bit of a rough time with vandalization of Velib bikes.

After I returned my bike, I wandered into the adjacent restaurant. There was a buffet lunch available for ¥1200, which is a steal in this town. Plus, the food was actually good! (I think this is the first time I've been happy about the food at a tourist attraction.) I could only translate some of the labels, but for the most part, we have traditional Japanese pickled items, radishes, tofu, some salmon (with bone), chicken, several kinds of mushrooms, yakisoba (Chinese chow mein), a potato croquette, potato salad and udon noodles.

If you ever have the chance to try the Suntory Coffee Boss from a soda machine, don't.

Chicago's "Tour Da Lakefront" Challenge

Once again, Chicago Park District is sponsoring a "Tour Da Lakefront" biking challenge this summer, from Memorial to Labor Day. The idea is to encourage people to bike the length of the lakefront bike path (or most of it), from Rainbow Park on (3111 E. 77th) to Margate Fieldhouse (4921 N. Marine). You check-in at one end of the trail to get a time stamp, then you have to present your card at the other end of the trail within 3 hours. Though the 18-mile length may seem intimidating, 3 hours is actually more than enough time to get from one end to the other. (Depending on traffic/wind speed, I generally bike 16-18 mph.) For your efforts, you will receive a free t-shirt and the satisfaction of knowing you've seen more of Chicago's lakefront than 95% of the population.

Now, this is fine and dandy, though I am a little worried that we are encouraging newbs to bike more on Chicago's most congested bike path. This can only cause additional biker rage. Also, as a purist, I feel that people should be forced to bike to the northern terminus of the lakefront trail (at Hollywood, another mile north), or you're not biking the entire length. However, I suppose that Margate Fieldhouse is the most convenient check-in point in the area.

Moving on. Though I've biked the lakefront path many times, I never got around to formally doing the "Tour Da Lakefront" challenge last summer. So, I decided to do it today, while attempting to improve the state of my tan lines. (My back pretty much has all of Michael Jackson's skin tones. Too soon?) I called Margate Fieldhouse to make sure they were open on Sundays, and they told me that the Rainbow Beach office was actually closed for the day, so I could bike north and check-in (by 4:30 pm), but if I biked south, it'd be purely for kicks and giggles. Fair enough. I didn't really care where I checked-in because I planned to bike both legs to get home.

A little over an hour later, I presented myself at Margate Fieldhouse. (Exit at Lawrence and take your first right to get there.) There were plenty of t-shirts left, though they were mostly in large sizes. After a bit of rummaging, the lady was able to find a medium, which of course, still looks ludicrously large on me. Oh well, I no longer have a dearth of cyling t-shirts in my wardrobe!

Quote of the Day

"Critical Mass is like 4chan on bikes...they do it for the lulz." -Phil

On Commuting

Every day, I hop on my bike and trek the 3.1 miles to work. Head down against the merciless wind, eddies of traffic flowing around me, I pedal hard against the pavement, one small revolution at a time. Having traversed it hundreds of times, I know this route like the lyrics to RENT. I slip into an almost meditative state, which is probably not the frame of mind you should be in as UPS trucks bear down behind you. Still, I take the rumbles, the honking and the exhaust and incorporate them into an unorthodox urban reverie.

With almost equal reliability, I pass the grocery on the corner of 18th Street and hear a piercing whistle. You know the kind, the penetrating wolf-whistle that men are so naturally adept at. A high note, followed by a portmento to a lower pitch, then back up again. A curlique on the staff.

At first, my reaction was annoyance. What chauvinistic pig goes around whistling at women these days? Where does he think he is, Southern Europe? Then, I inevitably succumbed to the implicit flattery. Though I am bundled up in three layers of fleece, a scarf, an ungainly helmet and '80s style legwarmers, I am still attracting attention. Sweet, I can make heads turn! Or maybe it's recognition of the badassery of biking in traffic, faithfully braving the harsh winter. You go, girl, says the Incognito Whistler. Go out and stick it to the Man. On the silent, uninterrupted mornings that I pass by unheralded, I can't help feeling that something is amiss. I reluctantly dissolve back into solution.

Occasionally, I turn my cheek and take a quick glance to the side. This usually elicits additional whoops and shouts. I imagine high fives, fist pumps and terrorist fist jabs in the parking lot. I never have time to actually see anything beyond a brief glimpse of warehouse, then I right myself and pedal faster to beat the yellow light. There is work to be done after all.

Yet, my thoughts linger on. Who is the Incogito Whistler? Is he a grizzled, old man, fully-bearded, cantankerous and impervious to the forces of political correctness? A dapper poetic soul, who relishes the whimsy of anonymous encounters? A fellow cyclist? A pipe-smoking Russian ice skater? For the last year and a half, have I been callously passing up the love of my life? Should I do something?

Missed Connections - Whistler's Other -w4m - 23 (18th & Canal)

Every morning, I bike past the Richwell Market and you whistle at me. Normally, I brush this aside like clingy lint and continue on my merry way with nary a second thought, but lately I've been wondering--do you like orange juice with pulp? Have you ever pondered how they get the middle bun on a Big Mac? We've never seen each other face to face, much less met, but we still have a connection ripe for exploration. Let me know if you want to break the 4th wall or stroll down the street singing "Les Champs-Élysées." Sure, I realize that simply stopping would be a much more efficient way than Craig's List to accomplish this, but that would ruin the enigmatic appeal of this exchange. Please reply with the colors of my headband and backpack; your pic gets mine.

A sudden thought strikes me: what if the Incognito Whistler is a woman?

Why I Love Irv's Bike Shop

Mural from the facade of the Casa Juan Diego building.
Caption at the bottom: Aqui estamos y aqui nos quedamos.
Translation: Here we are and here we stay.

Lately, I've been noticing that the Jolly Green Giant (my mountain bike) has been feeling under the weather. At first, it was simply a matter of gears not shifting smoothly or at all. That's ok, Chicago is flat! Then, as winter progressed, all kinds of squeaking and crunching noises started to chime in. Oh well, nothing a little extra lube can't fix, right? Finally, two days ago I noticed that my rear brake cable was slack. As in, there was a significant delay between the time I pressed down on the brakes and when the bike actually began slowing. That's when I decided it might be dangerous to continue ignoring the compounding ailments. I hauled ass to Irv's.

Irv's Bike Shop is my all-time favorite FLBS and the only true neighborhood bike shop in Chicago. Period. When you walk in, there will a bird on the counter, children ogling BMX bikes, hipsters carrying neon blue wheels, and an occasional dog underfoot gnawing on a bone. There may not be shining floor displays and it is often closer to go to Kozy's, but I will go out of my way to get to Irv's. Come to think of it, I have yet to meet anyone named Irv here, but I am on good terms with Henry. By that, I mean he invariably chews me out every time I walk in.

Me: So, my front derailleur isn't shifting any more...
Henry: When's the last time you greased it?
Me: Uhh, one month ago? Two months ago?
Henry: Ok, repeat after me: I will grease my chain once a week. I want you to say that 100 times before you leave! [Henry proceeds to clean, grease and fix my bike for me free of charge, and then shoos me out the door.]

This time, Henry began scrutinizing my bike and asked, "Have you ever given this an overhaul? You're going to need new brake pads, a new chain, cranks, chainrings, rear casette...We'll take out the cables and replace them with stainless steel ones so this doesn't happen again. Man, you have done a number on this bike! " I gave him a sheepish look and asked, "Ok, how much is all this going to cost?" He replied, "Oh, let's see, the cogs will be about $60, another $12 for brake pads, plus $1000 for labor...does that sound cool?" I grinned and said, "Totally fine."

For an additional bonus, Irv's is in Pilsen, a heavily Mexican neighborhood filled with tacquerias, cantinas and Mexican bakeries. All the chicharrónes (pork rinds) and chocoflan (combination flan and chocolate cake) that you could want! This meant that while I waited for my bike to be repaired, I hopped over to La Casa del Pueblo and picked up a dozen tamales for $10. (There are multiple varieties but I can't read the menu, so I've resorted to pointing at the sticker-adorned foil wrapped package that I want; yellow and green have been pretty good so far.) In recent months, there has been much debate over the continuing gentrification of Pilsen, and whether the influx of art galleries, coffee shops and hipsters will drive working-class residents out of the barrio (along with the gang warfare problems). On the side of a building, I was amused to see that someone had painted a yellow zoning sign labeled "Danger: Gentrification Zone."

Back at Irv's, the total damage came to $177.97. This is actually $70 more than I spent buying the bike to begin with, but I figure that I like this bike a lot and don't want to expend the effort of finding a new one. Besides, considering I've put next to no maintenance into this bike and a monthly CTA pass runs a little over $80, I'm still coming out ahead overall. The Jolly Green Giant is now running smooth like butter and faster than ever. Bring on the spring weather!

Adventures in Cycling, Near-Death Edition

When it comes to personal safety, there are few things in life that can faze me. Biking in traffic? I dare you to hit me, cabdriver! Running at night by myself? Been there, done that. Fights escalating in public places? Eh, nothing I haven't seen in high school locker rooms. Probably the only time I've ever been really worried about the prospect of severe injury was the time I nearly skidded off an icy road on the way back from Iowa. And then, there was last night.

The Lakeshore Path runs alongside Lake Michigan for 18 miles, the length of Chicago's lakefront. During the peak summer season, the path is packed with a mixture of high-speed cyclists, slower joggers and roller-bladers, rubbernecking tourists, ice cream carts, and small children with unpredictable trajectory patterns. All in all, it can be a dangerous place if you aren't careful. I tend to enjoy biking the LSP a lot more in spring or fall, when it's colder and there's plenty of space.

Yesterday, the winds off Lake Michigan were blowing at a furious clip. In particular, near Oak St Beach, water was getting blown onto the path, soaking the pavement. This section of the path is also on an incline, sloping toward the water. I took note of this earlier in the day, but a little water never hurt anyone, so I didn't think twice about it. By the end of the day though, the temperature had dropped below freezing, and the water had solidified into a thin sheet of ice. I couldn't tell that there was ice, rather than water, on the ground, and biked ahead full speed. Immediately, I could feel something was awry. Before I could slow down, I flew off my bike and hit the ground. My bike began sliding down the slope, shooting toward the edge of the lake, and I silently emitted a primal scream, "NOOOOO!" Meanwhile, I was also sliding precariously toward the icy depths of Lake Michigan. I clawed at the pavement in a desperate measure to increase friction, and stopped about 10-15' short of the water's edge. Luckily, my bike managed to stop about 5' short of the drop-off. My heart was pounding.



(For good measure, I've included a delightful diagram produced in Paint.)

At this point, I was at the bottom of a slippery slope, surrounded by ice. At the very top of the slope, there was a thin strip of dry pavement. I picked up my bike, put together the shattered pieces of my helmet light, and began walking uphill. Almost immediately, I fell over. To add further insult to injury, the wind was still howling and a large wave crashed upon shore, soaking through my shoes. I picked myself up and gingerly tried to take a lateral step. After two steps, I ignominously slipped and keeled over again. Another wave washed onto shore, and now my pants were completely soaked from the knees down. At this point, I realized the only way I could get anywhere was to crawl. So, that's what I did. I pushed my bike uphill a couple feet, crawled forward two feet, and repeated this process. The normally crowded path was wholly deserted, and no one else was visible for miles. It was an epic struggle for survival, man vs. nature, akin to a scene from Into Thin Air.

Eventually, I made it to safety at the top. I quickly surveyed my bike to make sure it was in okay mechanical condition; the brakes were frozen over, but other than that, everything seemed intact. Then I got back on my bike, mostly nonplussed, and rode the next 6 miles home, pausing to warn the two bikers that I passed about the ice ahead. Luckily, it wasn't that cold (somewhere in the mid-20s), otherwise my wet toes would have been in serious trouble. As it was, by the time I got home, I couldn't feel my pinky toes and my feet were lobster red.

Anyway, in conclusion, I think it's about that time of the year where I stop biking the LSP, and bike exclusively through the streets instead.

Critical Mass, June

Now that warm weather is here, what could be better than a long bike ride with hundreds of other people? It's been about 6 months since my last one, so I decided it was time to hit up Critical Mass, particularly since this would be Ana's last chance to attend a Mass before she moves to Berkeley. So, after work, we grabbed our backpacks and helmets, and Katherine grabbed a Rhode Island flag and hat.

Katherine: Look, I even brought a costume this time! I'm Rhode Island!
Everyone else: Wait, what? Why did you bring a costume?
Katherine: Aren't we supposed to have costumes? Oh wait, last time we went in October, and it was Halloween...

At least she didn't look out of place with the flag-cape. The Mass always attracts plenty of sideshow-like acts, and this ride was no exception. There were small children, Bush protesters, acoustic guitarists singing about Carl Sandburg, people in underwear, and "Less gas, more beer" signs. We roughly followed this route, which took us through lots of parts of the South Side I'd never seen before, past a building that smelled like a muffin factory (yum!) and another building that smelled like manure (gag). At one point, the Mass wound its way to Ashland and 31st, and I wasn't sure why we were all stopping, until I realized someone had lit a colored smoke bomb. After much cheering, angry honking and many Chicago hold-ups, we continued on our way, and ended the ride 3 hours later at the 31st Street beach.

That was the good part of the ride. The not-so-good part of the ride came when the cops started breaking up the Mass and arresting people with beers. Granted, this is obviously an open container violation, but this was the first time I'd felt a hostile police presence at a ride. (Usually the cops help us cork intersections.) As I watched in horror, a cop yanked a beer out of one guy's hand and threw it on the ground, then shoved him in the back of a squad car. He threw the guy's bike into the trunk and then roughly slammed the trunk. It didn't shut, and the crowd collectively groaned. A voice shouted, "Let my people go!"

We forged on. At a subsequent intersection, a crowd had gathered menacingly around a car with the crumpled remains of a bike frame underneath. I'd seen the cyclist earlier, toting a small dog in a basket. "You killed my dog!" he yelled at the driver. She leaned out the window and pointed angrily, "Well, that guy put his bike on my car!" "She won't get away with this!" the others shouted, "Take pictures of her license plate!" The crowd jeered, and cell phone cameras dutifully began clicking. We decided to stop rubbernecking and move on before some sort of vigilante bike mafia action took place.

At this point, we realized that the crowd had thinned substantially, and we couldn't see anyone ahead of us. Oy! Luckily, there were spotters posted at intersections directing people where to go next. We paused at a light to regroup. "Mass up, mass up!" went the exhortations. "Cars are starting to cut us off, mass up and stick together!" How do you keep a band of bikers together if they don't know where they're going and there's no official leadership? Somehow, people emerge from the woodwork to direct traffic and block intersections. Like self-correcting RNA transcripts, the Mass is surprisingly resilient to failure.

This being my third Critical Mass, and one fraught with tension from non-bikers, I gave some thought as to why we mass, and what statement is being projected. I've spoken to other cyclists who say they don't support the rides and see it as a gratuitous display and disruption of traffic. We could debate till sunrise about whether the publicity and education generated by the rides outweighs the ire raised in drivers and the occasional arrest; I don't think you can say definitively whose side is in the right. However, in a post over the CCM listserv, Adam Kessel raises a very good point to the critics:

The main difference that CM makes, I believe, is in the time between rides, when otherwise depoliticized cyclists start to take action; to write letters to their representatives and city councillors; to argue with their neighbors, families, and friends; to become increasingly aware of the primary role that the private automobile plays in determining foreign and domestic policy, in separating out rich from poor and black from white, in causing more deaths, injuries, and illnesses than all of the leading 'public health' villains.

Critical Mass promotes a vision where cycling is mainstream, an alternative option to our car-centric culture, a place where fear is eliminated and bikers feel safe to ride in traffic, as traffic. For a brief, ephemeral afternoon, we ride in an imaginary cocoon, united with strangers. And then I leave, alone but mobilized with a message. Looking back at the number of people I've convinced to start biking, I think I'm doing pretty good.

How to Buy a Used Bike (Chicago version)

So far this spring, I've been asked at least 4-5 times for advice on how to buy a first bike. And little wonder, with gas prices skyrocketing the way they are! When I first decided to delve into cycling, I remember feeling overwhelmed by the array of choices I had to make. Scanning Craig's list, you are presented with titles like "Bianchi Campione, 53 cm w/ Shimano WH-R353 wheels." What on earth does that mean? Anyway, you can reap the benefits of the hours of research I had to put in. Without further ado, I present my tips for how to buy a used bike (in Chicago).

1) Go to Craig's list. Alternatively, I have heard success stories from people who went to the Working Bikes co-op. If you do this, you should show up about half an hour before they open, and be ready to rush in and grab a bike.

2) Bike type: something with straight (not dropped) handlebars will be a lot more comfortable and easier to control. You can go with an older bike with fewer gears (Chicago is flat, you don't need 21 speeds, but it's nice to have options), or an older mountain bike (the better for absorbing road vibrations/riding over potholes). In the last few years, they've also come out with hybrid bikes, which try to combine features of mountain/road bikes.

3) Brand: Avoid department store bikes (Huffy, Magna). They will be extremely heavy and have shoddier parts. I am a fan of (relatively) cheap Schwinns and Giants. Expensive brands which scream "steal me" include: Specialized, Trek, Cannondale, Diamondback

4) Other features: if you plan to commute regularly, you should look for fenders (essential in rain) and may want to consider a rear rack. You can also get clip-on fenders cheaply.

5) When you test ride the bike: Do the gears shift (mostly) smoothly? With older bikes, there will probably be some lag time/crunching noises. Hopefully you can lube the chain to ease that. Are the brakes responsive/pads not worn out? Press down on the tires, are they rock hard? Lift up the bike and spin one wheel at a time, does it spin freely/not rub up against brake pads? Is the wheel true/not wobbling side to side?

6) Buy a helmet and a decent U-lock (cable locks are fairly useless). There are tons of bike shops, but the cheapest place for parts that I've seen is Irv's in Pilsen. Plus, Henry is super nice. Check the Chicago bike shop directory and click "city only" at the top to narrow by location boundaries. If you ever bike at night, bike with front & rear lights.

My first time biking in traffic was one of the scariest experiences of my life. Don't let that deter you! Chicago is marked with lots of bike lanes, and the drivers are courteous for the most part. Also, biking along the lake shore path is one of the best feelings EVER.

See you at Critical Mass.

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.

Jersey Boys

In recent years, Broadway has seen the debut of a slew of shows based on existing musical acts. There's Mamma Mia!, based on songs from ABBA, and Movin' Out, presenting the Billy Joel catalogue. After all, baby boomers who grew listening to bands from the '60s and '70s are now in their prime earning years, and regularly frequent the theater.

Then again, though these are some of the more popular "jukebox musicals," Good Vibrations and All Shook Up (featuring songs from the Beach Boys and Elvis Presley) certainly demonstrate that having a large fan base doesn't necessarily translate to Broadway success. Personally, I have mixed feelings about writing musicals around a pre-existing band, since it seems like it would stymie the creation of original material and dumb down Broadway. Besides, isn't the point of musical theater to discover new music, not just rehash old favorites?

My misgivings aside, I still happily agreed to go see Jersey Boys with Britton last night. The musical is a fictionalized account of Frankie Vallie & the Four Seasons and their rise to stardom. Take the usual hard-knocks tale of struggling teens with a gift for music, add in some Jersey mobsters and a cameo by a young Joe Pesci, and presto, you have yourself a plot. The play is divided into four parts, or movements, if you will, each named after a different season and narrated by one of the four members. My favorite band member was Bob Gaudio, who shot to fame after writing "(Who Wears) Short Shorts" at age 15. He is considered the most cerebral of the bunch, and is responsible for writing many of the Four Seasons' hits.

Joisey Girl: So, who's the girl in the song? Your girlfriend?
Gaudio: No, it could be any girl. Every girl. It's what T.S. Eliot called the objective correlative.
Joisey Girl: You're not from around here, are you?

The true star of the night though was the Four Seasons' music itself. I've casually listened to many of their songs on the radio, but this was the first time I'd examined their discography in detail. And some of their lesser known hits are incredibly catchy. Take a listen to "Rag Doll"; supposedly it's based on the true story of Gaudio who was approached by beggar girl in Manhattan. In between an incredible falsetto from the actor playing Frankie Valli and the cute doo-wop choreography, I was pining for the good ol' days of boy bands wearing suits. By the end of the night, we were all singing and clapping along to the encore of "December 1963 (Oh, What a Night)." I've never seen an auditorium so full of smiles.

________________

One more aside: I needed to fix a bike flat before the show, so I trekked to the nearest bike shop looking for help. They were closed for the day, but luckily, a cop was around and offered to help me fix my flat. (Brings new meaning to the phrase "to serve and protect.") In the midst of this, who strolls out of the shop?! Joe, whose last 4-5 messages I've been ignoring. Cue awkward conversation...Go figure, a city of 8 million people, and I manage to run into the one person I'm actively trying to avoid. After he left, my friend Britton (and the cop) were gut-busting laughing at me. Now that, was the clutch part of the evening.

Critical Mass, Halloween Edition

Despite our vows not to go back next month because it would be cold and miserable, the last Friday of October rolls around and once again, I find myself at Critical Mass. The reasoning was that it was nearly Halloween, and what could possibly be better than an unruly mob of cyclists? Answer: an unruly mob of cyclists in crazy costumes. Besides, next month would be even more cold and miserable, so we should go this month. (Let's see if this reasoning holds up again in Nov.)

I'd been musing over a few costume ideas (gay Dumbledore, kid from E.T., Elphaba the (not so) Wicked Witch, cross dresser [the story of a frustrated bureau]) but I was having trouble piecing together key ingredients, like a stuffed E.T. doll. After standing in the rapidly emptying costume aisle at Target for a while, I gave up and went back to the drawing board. Then it hit me - I should be an accident victim! This was all the more appropriate for CM because lots of us have actually been hit by cars, including myself (twice).

I took a white t-shirt and was going to drive over it to create tracks. On second thought, I grabbed the spare tire, rolled it through some mud, then rolled it over the shirt. Add some streaks of fake blood, bandages and gauze on the forehead, and a leafy twig sticking out from my ear and voila, I was rocking the disheveled, just-got-run-over look. Note: this is what I wore to work on Friday.

Unfortunately, it was forecasted to pour that night. After a vigorous debate, Ana managed to convince everyone not to wimp out. Besides, she'd bought several packs of face paint and hair spray dye, and we were going to use them, dammit. So it's after 5 on Fri afternoon, and here I am, standing outside a cubicle, painting white circles around Katherine's eyes while Nathan is smearing a wax scar onto my cheek. An hour later, Ana has a scary clown frown, Katherine is Raggedy Ann, and Nate is rocking the David Bowie lightning bolt.

Eventually, we make it to Daley Plaza, which has been transformed with orange fountains and a haunted house. There are zombies on bikes, banjo players (being carted) on bikes, and a girl with a plunger dressed as Luigi passes us. Later that night, we spot a guy dressed as Mario, and excitedly tell him there's someone dressed as Luigi! He says that he talked to her earlier and they were going to meet up afterwards, but now he can't find Luigi in the crowd, and he's looking so if you can help...

Katherine: I'm looking for Raggedy Andy!
Me: Well, I'm looking for a sleazy TV lawyer!
Nate: And I'm looking for Mick Jagger!

At that point, the rain went from romantic sprinkle to cold and miserable pouring, and we left to go dry off. But I have faith that Mario and Luigi found each other somewhere in Coin Heaven.

Critical Mass

Friday night marked the 10th anniversary of Critical Mass in Chicago. If you've never heard of this, Critical Mass is basically a mass rally of cyclists who gather on the last Fri of every month to bike through the city, take over the streets, block traffic and generally have a good time riding without fear of being hit by cars. The movement (if you can call it that) aspires to advocate cycling but has no official "platform" or "organization" or "leaders." In fact, the biking route isn't decided until the day of the rally, when people suggest possible maps and a general vote is taken. As you can imagine, the unregulated, unpredictable nature of the Mass tends to put the police in a bit of a bind, but in Chicago (unlike NYC) the cops are generally supportive and help block traffic, rather than arresting people for disorderly conduct.

This sounded like a massive block party on wheels, so I grabbed some fellow bikers and we headed out to the Mass start point at Daley Plaza. Problem: when we headed out, we discovered that Charles' bike seat had been stolen. Ack! I feel vindicated now for being paranoid and taking my bike seat with me whenever I leave it outside. Luckily, the Millennium Park bike station was still open, and the mechanic was miraculously able to find a fitting seat and post for his bike. This was the same guy who patched up my bike after I got hit by a cab; have I mentioned lately how much he rocks??

Meanwhile, the Mass was in full swing and heading north. And by "full swing," I mean traveling at about 5 mph - thousands of bikers don't make it anywhere particularly fast. Plus, we were surrounded by all kinds of sideshows. There was a marching band, people passing out organic sodas, skinny hipsters toting patched messenger bags, suburban lawyer types in spandex, parents with wagons of small children, bikes with subwoofers attached, short trick bikes, 5' tall 2-tiered bikes, and that guy you always see on Lake Shore drive with the "Hi :)" flag on his bike.


The Mass wended its way through downtown and headed toward Wicker and then Humboldt Parks, alternatively pissing off cab drivers (who were prevented from driving forward by cyclists who "corked" intersections) and bringing good cheer to kids who ran out to shout "Happy Friday!" (the unofficial Critical Mass greeting). I was surrounded by bikes on all sides, there were no dump trucks bearing down on me and no cars opening doors in my path, and for the first time ever, I felt completely safe while biking in the city. By the end of the night, I was definitely feeling One with the Mass or the Universe or whatever.

We made a quick pit stop at Charles' apartment to pick up beer (appropriately enough, he had large quantities of PBR). I have now perfected my technique for opening a can of beer with one hand while riding a bike.

That was without a doubt the funnest thing I've done all month.

There are rumors flying that this 10th anniversary Critical Mass might be the last one ever in the city, since some feel that the ride has become too large for its own good, and more closely resembles a frat party, rather than focusing on cycling advocacy. Personally, I think the Mass will keep assembling so long as there are cyclists who keep showing up once a month at Daley Plaza. (see proponents of the "Last Mass My Ass!" campaign) I didn't stick it out till the end of the ride (we had plans to meet up with people), but if you stay till the end, I hear the horde eventually ends up at say, the North Ave beach and then breaks up into lots of crazy after-parties. Yay, biking community culture!

Bitten by the Biking Bug

So, I've been on the watch for a new bike for a while, but became really motivated to look for a new one when both Katherine and Joe picked up new bikes last week and my current bike got a flat. Don't get me wrong, my bike is a perfect commuting bike in many ways, a solid vintage English 3-speed which came equipped with fenders, a chainguard and a rack. (All of these features are rare in contemporary bikes.) However, it's a bit of a heavy clunker and the brakes are questionable at best after rain. Last time I went into the bike shop, someone commented that the bike could very well be put on display as an antique. And okay, buying two bikes in two months? I'll admit that I have a not-so-minor case of cycling fever.

After a decent amount of research, I decided I was limiting myself to spending no more than $250 (I could have easily blown $1000 on an entry-level road bike), which meant I wasn't buying a new bike. My second problem was trying to figure out proper bike sizing (frame size? standover height? top tube length?), made all the more tricky since European bikes use metric measurements and American bikes do not. Then I took a crash course in bike mechanics to try to understand the differences in component quality. Rim or disc brakes? Front or all suspension? Steel or aluminum frame? How the hell do they build bikes that weigh in at 21 lbs?? Christ, that's lighter than my bag of rice at home.

Luckily, after scouting Craig's list for a couple days, one listing caught my eye, a 21-speed Giant Yukon hybrid (all-terrain) bike with a smaller 17" frame. When I called about the bike, the owner seemed a little distracted ("Which bike?"), and asked me to describe the bike extensively before saying "Oh yeah, it's available." So, I showed up tonight at the address given, and ran into another girl who was looking at a single-speed. The guy went down into the basement to retrieve our bikes. Meanwhile, the other girl commented nervously, "I really hope this guy isn't dealing stolen bikes...but uh, the price is definitely right." It hadn't even occurred to me that the guy could be dealing stolen goods, but when I asked him why he was selling the bikes, he said he was a dealer and every summer he fixed up bikes and resold them as a hobby. Shrug, it seems plausible enough? Besides, when I hopped on the bike, it was pure bliss. Light as a feather, silk-smooth shifting, and a beautiful dark green finish. Stolen good potential be damned, one quick spin around the block later, I was completely sold. Forget buying a new car, buying a new bike makes me super happy. Besides, according to the other girl, it's really hard to retrieve stolen bikes unless the owner happens to look at it and knows it's theirs. Oh well!?

Best car accident EVER

When I decided I was going to start biking, I came across lots of statistics about how biking was really dangerous, then read more statistics which refuted these and maintained biking prevented diabetes, obesity, etc and was much safer than driving or walking. Well, I can now weigh in on this argument with personal experience because last night, I was hit by a cab while biking.

Considering how many times I've biked semi-recklessly through red lights or after drinking, it was kind of ridiculous how many things I was doing right this time. I was wearing a helmet, I had lights on, and I even had the right of way with the crosswalk (the white pedestrian light, not the flashing orange one). I saw the cab on the corner, but apparently he didn't see me, perhaps because he was talking on his cell. I pedaled forward, got hit by the cab and flew off my bike, which got stuck underneath the car. Katherine was with me and immediately thought I was dead. Au contraire, I bounced up from the pavement and spritely announced "I'm fine! I'm FINE!" Aside from some scrapes and bruises, I was feeling pretty good. In fact, I was awesome. It was sort of bizarre how great I felt after the adrenalin rush from being hit, a mix of giddiness at being alive and hubris at being relatively unscathed from a car accident.

Meanwhile, two other bikers had rushed over to the scene to see if I was ok and began yelling at the cab driver. Ah yes, the biker community at work! One guy was telling me I had to get the cabbie's plates, insurance info, etc, while telling him it was entirely his fault and he was a terrible person. Basically, it was the pent-up ire of cycling community towards cabs directed at this one driver. In his defense, he wasn't trying to run away and was making a reasonable attempt to give me all his insurance info, but there was just no way he could redeem himself at this point.

Cab Driver: Ok, here's all my contact information. Now, can I have yours?
Biker Guy: She doesn't have to give you any information at all!
Cab Driver: But look, I thought it was a fair trade! My info for yours!
Biker Guy: No, it's entirely up to you, but you don't have to release anything if you don't want to!
Me: Uhh...

Simultaneously, the other biker had cornered Katherine and was muttering under his breath about "all those damn Indian cab drivers. Look, they're all Indian! They wear the same shirt, every day! Seriously, what are they even doing in this country?" Some of this may have been promoted by the alcohol on his breath. Did I mention the cabbie wasn't even Indian? Katherine: "Um yeah, can I please just go tend to my injured friend? Thanks."

After the cabbie left, yon helpful biker dude gave me his number in case I needed a witness for claims. He also pointed us to a nearby bike shop, since my bike was not exactly ridable at this point. "Tell them Liam sent you," he said. So, we trudged over and hesitantly approached the counter. I explained that I'd been hit by a cab and name dropped, and it worked like a charm. The girl immediately grabbed someone and had them look at my front wheel. The bike is now in moving condition, but making lots of ominous noises, so I'm bringing it in to a mechanic later today.

By now, we were kind of in the mood to head home. Or, I still felt like I could run a marathon, but it was getting late. Somehow, despite our attempts to leave, we were getting lost amidst the paths around Navy Pier and kept coming back to the same Intersection of Death. Let me also point out that the chivalrous biker dude was working for Bike Chicago, so he was hanging out on the same street corner outside. On the third pass, we decided to just stop and ask for directions, and he asked if I was into jazz because there was a show on Tues night, and if I wanted more details I could call/text him. That's right, in one night, I was hit AND hit on.

Let me go dig up my hemp bag and patchwork skirt...