It's a strange feeling to see people worrying about little things while the world around them falls apart, and they seem to accept reality without protest. As you walk through the streets of Urbana-Champaign in Illinois, you notice something eerie—headless bicycles, like something out of a horror novel or a modern-day Headless Nick from Harry Potter. These bikes look as if some mysterious creature tore them apart during the night, leaving them without wheels, seats, handles, and sometimes, nothing but the frame and a lock. When I was here in 2016, I don’t remember seeing so many of these Headless Nicks on the streets.
Whether for practical reasons or something more philosophical, the whole city seems to go along with the idea that bicycles will get stolen, especially if left unattended. "Did you leave your personal belongings unattended? Then why are you complaining that someone stole them?" It’s as if the situation is so dire, there’s no point in expressing any opposition to the status quo—a stark contrast to a society supposedly based on the rule of law and strict adherence to it.
But not all bicycle theft stories are the same. It seems the city is capable of performing high-level, almost poetic, quick-snatches, leaving the victims without bikes but with good stories to tell. It was around 6 p.m. when I arrived in Chicago. After a grueling 40-hour flight, I was hoping for some well-deserved rest. Little did I know that the route from Chicago to Urbana-Champaign would be almost as troublesome as my journey through Istanbul, Denmark, and Iceland. By the time I reached Urbana-Champaign, it was already late at night, around 1 a.m. There were no buses or public transportation available, and even the taxis were sleeping, preparing themselves for the next day’s hustle. But bicycles did not sleep. You could see them scattered around the streets of Champaign like ghosts in Hollywood movies. But the vast majority were chained to parking lots, frightened and awaiting their predator to appear during the night. I wished I had one as I walked almost an hour and a half to reach my one-night hostel just outside the main city. Unfortunately, this also meant walking back the same distance the next morning.
I bought a good, used bike for myself—a $100 loyal little horse that would help me cover long distances in minutes. The next evening, I decided to visit a supermarket to get some essentials for my apartment: pillows, blankets, things of that nature. For some reason, when I got near the market (called Target), I couldn’t find it. The store seemed to be well-hidden behind the streets and crossroads. I saw 3-4 little kids riding bicycles. "Hey boys, can you please tell me where Target is?" They stopped and looked at me. One of them immediately scratched his head and, using profanity, screamed out loud, "Oh, where the F... is Target? I know it must be somewhere around here." But the smallest one just stared at me, not saying anything. There was something mature in his look—this was not the gaze of an 8- or 9-year-old kid; it was the look of someone much older. "Where’s your lock?" he asked, without hesitation. I was taken aback—how could this little bastard notice so quickly that I didn’t have a lock? "I don’t have it yet," I said hesitantly, "but I will get it." "Then how are you going to park your bike?" "I’ll try to find a place to hide it somewhere." "Good, good, very clever. Actually, let me come with you, and I’ll show you where the Target is." I was happy to see the little guy being so helpful and considerate. It took me exactly one day to have my bike stolen.
But again, it’s one thing to have your bike stolen, and it’s another to have it stolen "in style." I don’t think you get this kind of story for $100. I’d argue this is at least a $200 story. So the next day, I got a new $100 bike but couldn’t find a lock. Even Walmart was out of locks because of high student demand. That day, I needed to visit the university bookstore to buy some things. Fearful that my bike would be stolen again, I parked it inside the bookstore (to "hide" it), right by the entrance, in the corner of an oval entrance—really as remotely to anyone incoming or outgoing as I could. Every 2-3 minutes, I would come out to check if the bike was still there. I had this eerie feeling that it could be gone at any minute. Fortunately, almost 30 minutes passed, and my bike was still there. But by minute 31, it was no longer in the spot where I left it. It was gone for good.
I had no doubt that it was stolen again. But this time, the thieves made a big mistake because I parked the bike inside the bookstore, where there were cameras and people who could see everything. So, I only needed to inform the bookstore administration, and the thieves would immediately be found—or so I thought. I went straight to the bookstore salespeople and explained my concern: "Hey guys! Excuse me, but I had my bike parked right at the entrance, and it was here just 2-3 minutes ago, but now it’s gone." The girl immediately gave me an odd look and told me that my personal belongings were my own problem. "Excuse me? What do you mean by that?" "Do you see your bike here?" "No, I don’t—that’s why I came to you to ask for help." "Then it’s gone! You leave your personal belongings unattended, and they will be lost, and it’s your responsibility." I didn’t know what to say. Several things went through my mind: (1) Should I press criminal charges against the girl? (2) Should I press criminal charges against the bookstore? (3) Should I press criminal charges against everybody in this store? (4) Should I press criminal charges against the whole state of Illinois? I would have done all of the above if I could. Then, as if thinking aloud, the boy standing next to the girl said something apparently meant for her, but I heard it: "I think Stephanie/Christine (or whatever her name was) was saying something about the bike." I heard it, got hold of it, and never let it go. I immediately requested that she be present to explain to me where my bike was. I even remember a little midget-like guy walking past me who said, "Good luck with that." "What’s that?" "Good luck with finding your bike! You lost your bike." I’m still angry at myself for not saying something very, very nasty to him. Little midget.
In about 2-3 minutes, the bookstore manager, Stephanie/Christine, came to me with the expression you see on elementary school teachers’ faces. "Did you leave your bike in here?" "Yes, I just came in for a 2-minute errand, and when I came out, it was gone." "It was 30 minutes—I counted!" I stopped talking, partly because I had nothing else to say and partly because I realized my bike was about to be returned to me, and I couldn’t care less what scolding she had for me. "Who told you to park the bike here? It is dangerous; it is irresponsible! What if everyone else parks their bike here? You do that again, and you will be permanently banned from the bookstore!"
While she was talking, several things went through my mind. Of course, I didn’t say them out loud. "How exactly are you going to ban me from the bookstore? Every time I come in, are you going to immediately recognize me and kick me out? What if it’s someone else’s shift that day? Are you going to put my name—I'm not telling you my name! (though I did)—into a database, and then immediately recognize me at checkout? What if I pay in cash? What if I ask someone else to buy the books for me? I can just buy them on Amazon." But I smiled. She was really going at me, treating me like a criminal for doing something completely unacceptable. Finally, she calmed down, and I kept repeating that I wasn’t arguing with her, that she was correct about the parking regulations, and that I just wanted to get my bike back. She took me to the back of the bookstore and showed me my bike parked alone in the corner, looking all good! "Now take your bike and leave through this back door! Good luck with your studies!"
I got my bike back. And no one’s taking it away from me.
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