Miracles of Modern Transit

Diary Entry: September 4, 2024

Feel free to skip this one. It’s not about jurisprudence, unless you count the universe’s baffling legal system, which is a story for another time.

The way the Almighty delegates His powers is a fascinating bit of cosmic bureaucracy. Sages have tried to map the org chart, but it seems to require a certain miraculous flair, a kind of divine sweet-talking that’s above my pay grade.

My day began with a brief, bracing conversation with the morning air. I stepped out, inhaled its icy sermon, and promptly retreated. I was about to start packing when I recalled an email that had materialized in the wee hours. Someone wanted a chat before my grand departure. My response was a masterclass in diplomacy: “No, I am going to Chicago, and my capacity for caring is currently at zero.” Will they be upset? I suppose that’s a possibility. Am I losing sleep over it? Let’s just say my conscience is clear.

The logistics of the escape were, naturally, complicated. Past experience has taught me that my bicycle and I are a package deal. As you, my loyal reader, are well aware, slights against this noble steed are not taken lightly. We stay together as long as mutual affection—and physics—will allow. This led to a rather elegant bit of sidewalk ballet: me, riding the bike, while towing my luggage, which skittered along behind on its tiny wheel like a nervous pet. It was a perfectly stable system, provided I didn't stop or attempt to turn, at which point my luggage would perform a dramatic, upside-down faint.

I arrived at the central city station, a gleaming monument to what a bus and train station could be. It had all the necessary infrastructure, save for one minor detail: employees who sell tickets. In this temple of transit, all commerce is conducted online, with the gods of the internet. The automatic doors slid open with a welcoming hiss, ushering me into a beautifully designed, functionally useless building.

As I was leaving Urbana-Champaign, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the city itself was trying to orchestrate my untimely demise and that I was narrowly escaping its clutches. This paranoia was helpfully validated at the station entrance. A ginger-haired fellow, standing sentinel by the bike racks, was pontificating about someone who “carries small bags” and “cannot really go far.” From that moment on, every stray comment on the street was a coded message. The FBI, clearly, had assigned a rotating cast of undercover agents to shadow me, dropping cryptic warnings as I passed.

You’ll remember the great bicycle chronicles. My first was stolen, a tragedy that led to the acquisition of my current, more heavily guarded steed. Then there was the showdown with the tin-pot tyrant of the UIUC bookstore, who attempted a forceful confiscation. I made it known to the world that my bicycle and I would not be parted. I certainly wasn’t about to let this ghost-like, zombie-apocalypse town/city/village/cemetery absorb it into its poisonous soil. I have no doubt the local ghouls would have tried to eat it. So, it was coming with me.

I parked it outside and ventured into the pristine, employee-free void. My search for a human yielded one specimen: a security guard. He was a young man of about thirty, clad in a simple blue uniform, refreshingly free of the tactical showmanship some officers favor. He greeted me at the door, blissfully unaware of anything happening in his immediate vicinity. He was the sole keeper of this automated purgatory.

I asked him how one might get to Chicago. He informed me of an 11:00 bus and the need for an online ticket. This presented a tremendous problem, as the station—a hub for travel in the 21st century—was, of course, an internet-free zone.

I asked him what a traveler without internet was supposed to do.

“Nothing,” he offered with a shrug.

“So, to be clear,” I said, “the city’s official policy is that anyone without a data plan is a permanent resident?”

His face held a brief, beautiful moment of stillness. I could see the gears of absurdity grinding in his mind. Realizing his minimalist responses weren’t deterring my quest, he surrendered. “Talk to the driver.”

“And where might I find this mythical driver?”

“See the bus? Approaching now. Go outside.”

I hurried out to meet the man in the cheaply made uniform. After waiting in a short line of actual prepared people, I approached the driver and launched my well-rehearsed ‘clueless foreigner with cash’ routine. It bounced off his professional indifference like a rubber ball off a brick wall. With eyes of stone, he told me to go buy a ticket. It was 10:54. The clock was ticking.

I sprinted back to my only ally, Mr. Guard. Through what I can only describe as sheer force of will, I compelled him to perform some arcane ritual on my phone, and a Wi-Fi connection flickered to life. At precisely 10:59, the ticket was mine. I ran back out and knocked on the bus door, startling the driver. He looked at me, made a small gesture with his hand, and the door sighed open. He tilted his chin, a masterclass in non-verbal dismissal.

“I got the ticket! We’re going to Chicago!” I announced, as if he’d won the lottery.

Some people just don’t appreciate good news. He grumbled about the doors already being closed but was ultimately powerless against the holy sacrament of a purchased ticket.

He switched off the bus, got out, and opened the storage bay. I tossed my bags in. As I was about to broach the topic of my bicycle, he asked to see the ticket. A fine question, considering it existed only in the digital ether I had just left behind. He started complaining about the time. For a moment, I thought Chicago was a lost cause. But then, a miracle: the ticket suddenly, inexplicably, loaded on my screen. He scanned the barcode, confirmed the details, and realized I was, in fact, a legitimate passenger.

And the bike? You didn’t think I forgot. It was merely a matter of technique. I explained that my “little” bicycle would take up almost no space. Once it was in his enormous bus, the driver did complain that it didn’t look quite as “tiny” as described, but it was too late. He’d been caught in a classic case of situational cornering. The bike was going to Chicago.

***

My arrival in Chicago was calm. I’d been here before, on a pointless, time-wasting orientation trip to a law firm during my LLM program. Corporate skyscrapers really are a miserable-looking bunch, aren’t they? This time was different. We pulled into the station, and I immediately sensed the changing of the guard. My Urbana-Champaign FBI detail had clocked out, and the Chicago shift had taken over.

I left the station and headed into the heat, my black Jordan hat protecting me from the sun—a lesson learned the hard way in Champaign. I still call it just “Champaign,” by the way. It feels more fitting for a place not quite worthy of a two-part name. Chicago’s streets began to reveal themselves: groups of men on corners, talking, playing cards. Naturally, my brain supplied the stock footage: they'd either offer me recreational drugs or relieve me of my worldly possessions.

Like any major city, Chicago is dotted with free Wi-Fi spots, little digital islands in an ocean of concrete. As any seasoned traveler knows, you have your good providers and your “asshole” providers. The latter demand your email, your phone number, your firstborn child. You learn to surf the waves of the benevolent ones.

I subscribe to the “serendipity” school of travel planning, which is a fancy way of saying I don’t plan. I had no idea where I was staying. My hunger, however, was a far more organized traveler. I spotted a restaurant in what appeared to be the city’s glittering heart. It was a perfect spot—a hotel nearby, surveillance cameras everywhere. The safest place on Earth. I parked my noble steed and went to find a hostel.

I was back in under an hour.

The bike, having apparently achieved a higher plane of existence, was gone.

Remember when I said no one would take my bike away from me? Chicago managed it in 45 minutes. The nearby security guard, a master of Zen-like observation, had observed nothing. The police officers I spoke to kindly informed me that without a license plate, my bicycle was now a philosophical concept, not a criminal case.

Thanks, Chicago.