How Low Can You Go?

Back in late 2008 when I started this blog, one of my earliest posts was about the arrival of London's first ghost bike. It was installed in the memory of Caleb Losier. I could have sworn that first ghost bike disappeared for a while, removed by the City or somebody else at some point, I think. A few months I ago I saw a new bike in its place, or my brain malfunctioned and it was the same bike the whole time; I am uncertain.

Anyway, today I noticed that somebody had stolen the bars, stem and front fork. The wheels are somewhat bent, probably from drunk people kicking it or something. That I can understand. Drunk people do dumb and destructive stuff, or so I have heard. But removing the bars and fork from a ghost bike requires some tools and deep lack of respect for just about everything or a staggeringly special brand of stupidity. I mean, the bike has stuff written on it and sentimental items attached to it. Who the hell would want that stuff after it was painted white anyway?

I am at a loss for words. How Low Can You Go?

R A N T W I C K

Unexpected Results

Well, yesterday went by without anybody responding to my sign. Here's a picture of it on the bike:

Riding around with that thing on the bike did, however, yield some results, just not the ones I had expected. The first one was that it seemed to me that most drivers were a little more deferential and careful as they overtook me. My feeling was that they suspected a trick of some kind, or were simply reminded that how we both "drove" was important. I expected at least a few to yell out their answers, but that didn't happen.

Secondly, I rode much more responsibly. Far from perfect, I had nonetheless thought that I was riding about as well as I could. I was wrong. I signalled more, waved more, smiled more, and took almost no "grey area" risks or liberties with the rules. That damn sign put me on my very best behaviour. It makes me wonder how everybody would behave if their phone number was displayed on their vehicle...

OK, I know that my Rantwick address isn't exactly my home phone number, but knowing that people may be contacting you regarding your on-road behaviour has a definite effect.

Lastly, I felt like a pretty big weirdo nerd freak. It is one thing to be odd using your blogging alter ego, but quite another to display your strangeness on the streets where you live to both friends strangers who probably won't get you. Some of the comments on yesterday's post comforted me that some people out there appreciated what I was up to, but as I neared home yesterday I saw something near the river behind Labatt's brewery that really put true weirdness into perspective:

That fish and line were simply too far from the bridge or the water for it to have been an accidental thing. I may have to call the City about it, if only because I ride past that spot often and its presence will creep (and gross) me out. I'm hoping a bird or something will take care of it for me.

Anyway, while that image seemed a little surreal and vaguely disturbing to me, it eased my mind about my weirdness. Compared to whoever hung that poor little river fish from a telephone line, I am super normal. A model citizen and psychologically stable dude. Right? Right? Tell me I'm right.

I'm gonna keep using the sign, maybe not every day, but often, in the hopes that sooner or later I'll get a nibble.

R A N T W I C K