Chicago is an ideal city for biking. Not only is the public transportation a constant frustration to be avoided, but it is famously and completely flat - the only time I even consider changing gears is immediately before and after a bridge - and there are enough streets with big, well-marked bike lanes that it is only occasionally that I feel the claustrophobic terror with which I imagine NYC bikers must live constantly. I tip my helmet to you, east coast brothers.
Because of the nature of biking, which requires constant vigilance but minimal attention, my mind wanders. When I'm on the lake shore bike path (only 7.5 miles from my street to Navy Pier with the wind off the water much more pleasant a month ago) I feel comfortable wearing headphones, but on the streets it's not to be advised. As a result, I find myself revisiting the same themes over and over again, dredging up old slights and failures and reconsidering them with the miserable leisure of time. Mostly these have to do with women, because there is something about girls that convinces me that they and I are significant.
On my friends' recommendation I got my bike from Working Bikes soon after arriving in the city. Their shop is open twice a week for around five hours. As an institution they are an outfit dedicated to fixing and shipping bikes to developing nations. To fund this initiative, they sell bikes cheap to Chicago hipsters. As soon as they open, the line outside crushes in and everyone makes a mad dash for any bike that they believe might fit them, drops off their drivers license or other form of insurance of eventual return, takes a quick spin, and returns either to purchase or reassure themselves that they'll have another chance later in the week. I got there absurdly early, as I had not yet mastered the bus system (it is impossible to master the bus system) and in exchange for half an hour of moving newly refurbished bikes into the store from their shop space down the street, I was given first pick. My sweet little brown thing has skinny tires, but not too skinny, and it cost $100. Like I like em.
The Richard Tatorship, the improv group I formed with my roommates and their college friends, performed again last night, along with an extremely attractive trio from Loyola. I thought the show was good, I think the other dudes in the 'ship were less enthused. Possibly this has something to do with the fact that I talked a whole lot right at the end of the show. The next time I'm on Bikey II I'll have plenty of opportunity to pick my own performance apart. Especially if I'm imagining how the pretty Loyola girls were watching me steamroll my groupmates. This is how an actor prepares.
Tomorrow is the first read-through of The Glass Menagerie with the Oak Park Players, and my chance to get used to taking the crappy train all the crappy time. Stay tuned.
A correction: my roommate Stephen clarified that he didn't JUST make out with my friend Liz.
Heh heh, elbow elbow.
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1 comment:
Ah HA! Lake shore bike path! I told you about that!
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