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 unravel while everyone politely keeps silent and tries not to notice. Here in Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, the most striking local “public art” takes the form of bicycle skeletons. They are everywhere, like props from a surrealist horror film. You might stumble upon a perfectly serviceable frame, still diligently locked to a post, yet stripped entirely bare — devoid of wheels, seat, and handlebars, as if devoured by iron piranhas in the night. I certainly don’t recall this proliferation of non finito sculptures during my last visit here in 2016.

The entire city seems to have collectively resigned itself to this reality with a sort of Zen-like calm. The prevailing local philosophy goes roughly like this: Left your belongings unattended? What were you thinking? It is a wonderfully pragmatic approach that cleanly sidesteps the unpleasant business of, say, enforcing the law in a society ostensibly built upon it. After all, why protest the inevitable?

Yet, not all tales of bicycle disappearance are created equal. Some conclude with a certain theatrical flair, resembling high-level performance art that leaves you bereft of transport, but rich in narrative. My own story began after a grueling forty-hour transit through Istanbul, Denmark, and Iceland, finally touching down in Chicago at six in the evening. By the time I agonizingly navigated my way down to Urbana-Champaign, it was 1 a.m. The buses had gone to sleep, and the taxis were already dreaming of tomorrow’s fares. The local bicycle population, however, was wide awake. They were scattered everywhere like ghosts — huddled at their stands and chained up like prisoners, awaiting the midnight visit of a predator. How I wished one of them was mine as I embarked on a ninety-minute pilgrimage on foot toward a hostel on the outskirts of town — a trek I would have to repeat in reverse the very next morning.

Soon after, I procured a loyal, secondhand steed for a hundred dollars, fully prepared to conquer the vast expanses of the American Midwest. That same evening, I set off toward Target to stock up on basic necessities — pillows, blankets, and similar domestic trifles. The only problem was that, for such a massive retail leviathan, Target was surprisingly well-hidden. I was wandering in confused circles when I caught sight of three or four boys on bicycles, huddled together like a medical council in heated debate.

“Hey boys,” I called out, “could you tell me where Target is?”

One of them theatrically scratched his head and hollered, “Oh, where the hell is this Target? I know it’s somewhere around here.”

But the smallest of the bunch, a boy of about eight or nine, simply stared at me. His gaze was disturbingly adult — the weary, measuring look of a man who had seen too much.

“Where’s the lock?” he asked, entirely devoid of emotion.

I was momentarily stunned. How had this miniature cynic zeroed in on my fatal mistake so quickly?

“I don’t have one yet,” I confessed. “I’m on my way to buy one now.”

“So, where are you going to park the bike?” he pressed.

“I’ll hide it somewhere.”

“Good, good, very clever,” he nodded in a tone that, in hindsight, felt distinctly like professional approval. “You know what? I’ll come with you. I’ll show you where Target is.”

His attentiveness, at the time, genuinely touched my heart.

And just like that, precisely twenty-four hours proved sufficient for my bicycle to be spirited away. Still, the bike only cost me a hundred dollars, while the resulting story, in my estimation, easily holds a market value of at least two hundred. All things considered, I emerged the victor.

The following day, I purchased another hundred-dollar bicycle. This time, however, I collided with a citywide lock deficit; thanks to the influx of returning students, even Walmart had been picked clean. Defeated, I abandoned the hunt and dropped by the university bookstore to at least secure the literature required for my studies. Gripped by paranoia, I devised a brilliant plan: I wheeled the bicycle inside and leaned it against a wall right by the oval entrance. It appeared to be a safe haven, but to be thorough, I developed a strict routine. I would periodically interrupt my leisurely browsing to sprint in a mild panic toward the foyer, just to verify the bike was still standing there. For thirty blissful minutes, the system worked flawlessly. On the thirty-first minute, my bicycle achieved a sudden state of non-existence. It had simply vanished.

This time the thief slipped up, I thought. It had happened right in front of the cameras, in a building teeming with people. I approached the sales counter with the swagger of a prosecutor holding a signed confession.

“Excuse me,” I began politely, “two minutes ago I had my bicycle parked right over there, by the entrance, and now I can’t find it anywhere. It’s vanished.”

The salesgirl looked at me with profound pity, invoking the unwritten law of the land:

“Your personal belongings are your own problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you see your bicycle here?” she asked, gesturing toward the empty space.

“No, I don’t. And that is exactly the problem.”

“Meaning, it’s gone,” she concluded with flawless, devastating logic. “When you leave things unattended, they get lost. That is your responsibility.”

Panic set in. I was at a complete loss for what to do. Just then, a boy standing nearby muttered:

“I think Stephanie was saying something about that bike.”

I clung to the name like a life raft, immediately demanding an audience with this Stephanie.

While I waited, a rather diminutive, gnome-like man strolled past me. He chuckled and offered, “Well, good luck to you.”

“What?”

“Good luck finding your bike! You lost your bike.”

Despicable dwarf.

A short while later, the manager, Stephanie, materialized. She wore the exact expression of an elementary school teacher who had just caught a child red-handed.

“Did you leave your bike here?”

“Yes, just for two minutes.”

“Thirty minutes have passed,” she corrected me coldly. “I timed it.”

Her words acted as an instant sedative; I fell entirely silent. This meant the bicycle was safe. I knew I was about to endure a sound scolding, but I would have happily sat through a two-hour sermon on property rights provided I got my property back.

“Who told you to park your bike here?” she launched in. “This is dangerous! This is irresponsible! What if everyone did this? You do that one more time, and you will be permanently banned from this bookstore!”

Lord, how these people love their punishments, I thought.

While she continued her lecture, my mind wandered into the logistics of her threat. Exactly how did she plan to enforce a permanent ban? A facial recognition system? Was she going to distribute my photo among the staff? What if I simply popped in during someone else’s shift? Would she enter my name — which she didn’t even know — into some grand database? What if I paid in cash? Or sent a friend to buy my books? Besides, Amazon exists. On the outside, however, I simply offered the serene smile of a repentant sinner. I agreed with everything. She was right, I was wrong, and order must be maintained.

“I’m not arguing with you,” I began, attempting a diplomatic reset. “I know this isn’t a bicycle parking lot. However, I had my first bike stolen just yesterday, and I haven’t managed to find a lock yet today. I can’t exactly afford to buy a new bike every single day, can I?”

She studied me, and I could feel her inquisitorial fervor begin to cool. I pressed my advantage:

“I only panicked because the salesgirl told me my bike was already gone forever. I felt like everyone was ganging up on me.”

“And why you, specifically? What do you think?” she asked, peering searchingly into my eyes.

“I don’t know. Probably because people just really love catching someone in the act.”

What was she supposed to say to that? Recognizing a losing philosophical argument when she saw one, she opted out of the minefield, preferring the safety of distant disapproval. Sufficiently appeased, she led me toward the back of the store. And there it was — my bicycle, standing all alone in a corner, wearing an expression of pure innocence.

“Now take your bike,” she instructed, pointing strictly toward the emergency exit, “and leave through this back door. Good luck with your studies.”

What was that supposed to mean? Just because I hid my bike in the bookstore, I’m suddenly a bad student? It is what it is. The main takeaway was that my bike was back in my possession, and no one could take that victory away from me.