A Life in Waiting

So here I am six hours later sitting on an express train home. A lot has happened in these past six hours, actually not a lot, but enough to warrant that comment. Actually there was a lot of sitting, walking, web surfing and more walking. Not too far from my typical Monday, minus the excessive walking part. Not to get too far off track, but one thing about this walking thing. There is definitely something about urban areas that makes one want to walk more. Well me at least. I don’t know what it is. Actually I do know what it is. I’m too cheap to pay for a cab. But by walking, you get such a better feel for the area you are in, from the architecture to the people around you. As I have mentioned earlier, I love people watching. Forget the Biggest Loser, just head down to East Village and you are guaranteed to be more entertained. Then for an encore, head down through China Town into the financial district. You won’t see a larger distinction from one part of a city to the next. It’s like there’s an invisible wall. Once you pass through it you are transported to another dimension. Absolute chaos, to controlled euphoria.

Now back to the original subject, the motorcycles. So I expertly navigate myself from Metro North onto the 6 train which should drop me off right onto Canal Street, four blocks from where bike #1 is. But alas, this is me we’re talking about, so it can’t go this smoothly. In case you didn’t catch the headlines this morning, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejah (I actually forgot his name, so I just banged on the keyboard to get something that looked close) is in NY for a cozy little visit and to give a speech at Columbia University today. So of course they need to shut down the Canal Street station. So I get off two stops earlier, Bleeker Street and hoof it down to Canal. This is part 1 of the walking. Turns out, it’s quite a distance to where I was headed to on Canal. Not a big deal, I actually really enjoyed the walk there (yes I know Maria, you were right). So I get there and phone the owner to let him know I was outside.

Now as the owner of the bike has a name that I had difficulty understanding on the phone due to a heavy French accent, we’re going to refer to him as Frenchie. Frenchie meets me outside on the street and introduces himself (missed the name again). He comes down looking exactly as all of us stereotyping Americans assume a French man to look. Lean, long flowing hair to his shoulders, precision stubble beard, and the loose linen shirt and pants to perfect the too cool look. Oh and did I mention the slippers?

We walk down the street to where the bike was parked. Now this is one of the main reasons that I didn’t want to buy a city bike. The abuse it gets from sitting on the curb of Manhattan for years. First thing you see is the seat is completely dried out and cracked. Now in my opinion, the seat and tank are the two most tell tale parts of a bike of whether it was taken care of or not. Even the most neglectful of owners will typically keep these two parts in good condition. After a complete look over of the bike, I decided the money wasn’t worth it. As nice of a guy Frenchie was, his bike just wasn’t destined to join me on my journey.

To be Continued…

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