Headless Bikes and Silent Theft: A Journey Through Urbana-Champaign

Diary Entry: August 29, 2024

There’s a strange serenity in watching a world gently fall apart while everyone politely agrees not to notice. Here in Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, the most striking feature is the local public art: headless bicycles. They’re everywhere, like props from a surrealist horror film. You’ll see a perfectly good frame, still diligently locked to a post, but stripped of its wheels, seat, and handlebars, as if consumed by metallic piranhas in the night. I don’t recall this many of these charming sculptures from my last visit in 2016.

The entire city seems to have reached a collective, Zen-like acceptance of this reality. The prevailing philosophy is, “Well, did you leave your belongings unattended? Then what did you expect?” It’s a wonderfully pragmatic approach that sidesteps the messy business of, say, enforcing laws in a society supposedly built on them. Why protest the inevitable?

But not all tales of bicycle departure are created equal. Some are executed with a certain flair, a high-level performance art that leaves you bikeless but rich in narrative. My own story began after a scenic 40-hour flight through Istanbul, Denmark, and Iceland, landing me in Chicago around 6 p.m. By the time I limped into Urbana-Champaign, it was 1 a.m. The buses were asleep. The taxis were dreaming of tomorrow’s fares. The local bicycle population, however, was not. They were scattered everywhere like ghosts, huddled in their parking racks, chained up like prisoners awaiting the nightly visit from their predator. I wished I had one as I embarked on my ninety-minute pilgrimage on foot to a hostel on the outskirts of town, a journey I got to repeat in reverse the next morning.

I soon acquired a loyal, used steed for $100, ready to conquer the vast distances of the American Midwest. That evening, I set off for a supermarket called Target to procure life’s essentials — pillows, blankets, that sort of thing. The only problem was that Target, for a massive retail store, was remarkably well-hidden. As I circled, lost, I spotted a small welcoming committee of three or four boys on bikes. “Hey boys,” I said, “can you tell me where Target is?”

One of them scratched his head with theatrical flair and yelled, “Oh, where the F... is Target? I know it’s around here somewhere.” But the smallest one, a boy of perhaps eight or nine, just stared. His gaze was unnervingly mature, the weary look of a man who has seen too much. “Where’s your lock?” he asked, his voice flat. I was a bit stunned. How did this miniature cynic spot my fatal flaw so quickly? “I don’t have one yet,” I admitted. “I’m going to get one.”

“Then how are you going to park your bike?” he pressed. “I’ll hide it somewhere.” “Good, good, very clever,” he said, with what I now believe was professional admiration. “Actually, I’ll come with you. I’ll show you where Target is.” I was touched by his considerate nature. It took exactly one day for my bike to be stolen. The bike cost me $100. The story, I’d argue, is easily worth $200. A net profit, if you think about it.

So, the next day, I bought another $100 bike, but now faced a citywide run on locks; even Walmart was sold out, thanks to the student rush. I had to visit the university bookstore. Fearful, I devised a brilliant plan: I would park the bike inside the bookstore, tucked away in a corner of the oval entrance, a ghost in the machine. To be safe, I developed a routine of casual browsing punctuated by frantic, two-minute sprints to the entrance to confirm its continued existence. For 30 beautiful minutes, it worked. On minute 31, my bike had achieved a state of non-being. It was gone.

This time, I thought, the thief had blundered. They’d done it on camera, in a building full of people. I approached the counter with the confidence of a man who held all the cards. “Excuse me,” I said. “My bike was parked right there by the entrance two minutes ago, and now it’s vanished.”

The salesgirl gave me a look of profound pity and delivered the local catechism. “Your personal belongings are your problem.” “Excuse me?” “Do you see your bike here?” she asked, gesturing to the bike-free space. “No, that’s the issue.” “Then it’s gone,” she concluded with flawless logic. “You leave things unattended, they get lost. It’s your responsibility.”

My mind immediately drafted lawsuits against the employee, the corporation, the state of Illinois, and possibly the concept of retail itself. Just then, the boy next to her mumbled, “I think Stephanie was saying something about the bike.” I seized that name like a lifeline. I demanded to see this Stephanie. As I waited, a passing midget-like man smirked and 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.

A moment later, the manager, Stephanie, appeared. She wore the expression of an elementary school teacher who has just caught you eating paste. “Did you leave your bike in here?” “Yes, just for a two-minute errand.” “It was 30 minutes,” she corrected, with the cool precision of a stopwatch. “I counted.”

I fell silent. The bike was safe. I was about to be royally scolded, but I would have listened to a two-hour sermon on property law to get it back. “Who told you to park the bike here?” she began. “It is dangerous! It is irresponsible! What if everyone did that? You do that again, and you will be permanently banned from this bookstore!”

While she spoke, my mind wandered. How, exactly, would you enforce a permanent ban? Facial recognition? Will you circulate my photo among the staff? What if I come in on someone else’s shift? Will you put my name — which you don’t have — in a database? What if I pay with cash? Or get a friend to buy my books? I could just use Amazon.

But on the outside, I just smiled the smile of a repentant sinner. I agreed with everything. She was right, I was wrong, regulations were important. Appeased, she led me to the back of the store. There it was, my bike, sitting alone in a corner, looking innocent. “Now take your bike,” she said, pointing to a rear exit, “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.