Another hundred people (Sondheim reference, FYI)

So the best part about living in a big city is mass transit. Serious. When I was back in school (way, way back seven months), I rode a bike everywhere. It was a yellow-and-black Raleigh Retroglide with whitewall tires, fenders, paperboy baskets on the rear, headlights, tail lights, a bell, brakes, the whole works. (Sometimes I avoid blogging about my life because as I read back through the post I want to beat myself up. This is one of those times. The bike was a lot cooler than it sounds, I swear.)

That bike (along with my feigned casual yet charming disregard for intrapersonal relationships) defined me as a person. I took pride in having pedaled my way across campus every day of the Winter Semester '06, even on one morning that was rumored to have dropped to -40 with wind chill. Even when I reasonably had enough money to buy a car and enough roommates with cars to get a ride. Even then, I rode my bike to school, ringing my bell when I felt the urge, no helmet, no worries, no rules. (Well, I was pulled over once by a loyal member of the Rexburg police force, but only received a warning. I was clocked going 18 in a 5 zone. Lucky I didn't get my library card revoked.) I rode my bike not because I loved the environment or because I wanted to stay in shape. I rode that bike because I was the only one who would.

Fast forward seven months, and that bike is sitting in my parents' garage. I now ride to work through a system of tunnels that millions of other people also ride through. There is nothing that sets me apart, nothing unique. Some days I sit, others I stand. I usually try to enter through the middle door on the second-to-last car at the 46th Street stop so that I get off directly in front of the escalator at Times Square. Again, nothing unique. But the hours that I spend in those musty tunnels wearing a badge that mutters "Nobody Special" tell the most interesting stories of the last seven months.