Lost and Found

Transplantation from Southwest desert to Midwest tundra requires a wardrobe overhaul. Pros include scarves (previously colorful yet unnecessary accessories), down coats (great at camouflaging post-Thanksgiving blubber), umbrellas (the true window into a city girl's soul) and gloves (the variety is simply staggering). Cons include lost scarves (it was in my coat sleeve when I got to the bar), lost coats (did I hang it up where I was trying on leather jackets in that cozy department store?), lost umbrellas (I lent it to that agent, and they lent it to someone else) and lost gloves (airport, snowdrift, restaurant, sidewalk, etc).

Dealing with the loss of a cold weather wardrobe essential is frustrating. Usually they cost a pretty penny. Even worse, you probably spent a long time looking for the right fit/color/style. Of all the aforementioned items, I definitely feel the worst about losing a glove. Bargain hunter by birth, I never spend a ton on clothing. It's not the money, though. It's the fact that when I lose that one glove, I have a lonely, presently useless glove to remind me of my carelessness. And it's always the really great gloves I lose. I should be thankful, because I've had the same set of gloves since I took up residency in the Windy City. They are ugly, brown, cheap pleather gloves from Target. They literally stink. But for the life of me, they just won't get gone. So I continue to wear them. Sure, I've had other gloves. One a silky set of apple green leather, cashmere-lined beauties from Marshall Field's. Lost the right glove in the snow the second time I wore them. There was also the set of extreme cold weather gloves I wore a total of three times. After a mad dash to the closest restroom upon exiting the airport parking lot, I realized lefty was gone with the wind. Back to the stinky brown pleather.

A few weeks ago, I steeled myself to brave the cold on my bike. Freezing rain is a deterrent, for sure, but I'm taking on the cold air. Marky and I trekked to Dick's Sporting Goods to gear up with under armor. Gore-Tex shoes, facemask, and the perfect gloves. I try to avoid big name brands, but these black Nike ACG gloves were perfect, at the perfect price. Grip on the palm and fingers to shift gears. Washable, waterproof, slim-fitting, and not too long for my sausage fingers. Bring it on, winter!

This morning, the sixth time wearing them, I, well, I, uh... Okay, I didn't just lose a glove. Even though the temperature was low, there was hardly any wind, and the sun was beating down. Halfway through my ride, against my better judgment, I neglected to snap my pockets shut when I removed the gloves and placed them there. My seat was giving me trouble, and I got off the bike at two different intersections to adjust it. I tried to clamp the seat down tighter than usual, and in my rush to take advantage of the green lights, I did a half-assed job. The clamp handle was sticking out, jabbing me in the right thigh every time I pedaled. I was distracted. They must have fallen during my readjustment tango.

It wasn't until my lunch hour that I realized the right glove was gone. Since I changed in the bathroom, dried my hair in the storage room, and applied makeup in the key department, I had quite a few steps to retrace. But it had been hours. I texted Marky, and his unfazed response was, "Oh bummer. That's my Breezy." I went downstairs to check with reception, and when I looked in the lunchroom with no luck, I decided it might be time to look online for a new pair. The only pairs I could find were girly pink and girly turquoise. I'm a badass biker. Pink clashes with camouflage. My pulse raced. I did another quick look around the office. Then decided to find that glove on the street. What's the worst that could happen? I could spend my whole lunch hour riding between work, home, and back.

I rolled up my jeans and grabbed SexyBike. Stairs. If I waited any longer, it would be too dark to see the glove. Broadway. Would I have to go all the way to Wilson, where I first took the gloves off? Halsted. I needed to be careful to keep one eye on the parked cars, and one eye on the opposite side of the road. Clark. People wouldn't just pick up an abandoned glove, would they? Melrose. There's the mini construction site I almost got sideswiped by a pedestrian. Roscoe. And there it was. Laying peacefully on the pavement. The embossed ACG insignia glimmering in the sun. Asking myself aloud, "Is that it?" I pulled over. My glove patiently waited for me all day. And I didn't even have to leave the neighborhood. Ah, Persistance.

How I Learned to Love The Draft

And to think, I almost didn't ride my bike today!

I caught up to it just past Wrigleyville (after scaring the pedestrians--they deserve it for walking backwards, drunk, into oncoming traffic), near Irving Park. There in front of me was a braid. From beneath a blue Specialized helmet cascaded a thick rope of light brown with generous streaks of silver. At the bottom of this 18 inch monster were gentle curls, as if the woman attached still felt the need to express some femininity. I'm not saying the woman in front of me was rough or manly, she just exuded woman power. Her age, I would guess, was 50. 55? No makeup. Simple pink t-shirt and khaki shorts, sturdy legs, and rippling triceps. They rippled. That's usually a word reserved for bulky trainers, or Olympic swimmers--physiques which she didn't possess, but I can't think of any other way to describe it.

We were still at this stop light at Irving, and after all of 15 seconds, she had already become my hero. I decided I needed a name for her. Jane Goodall. No, that's already taken. How about Dian Fossey? Dian went ahead on the green, and I stayed behind her. I learned from Wii Sports Resort that you can reserve power by "drafting," or riding right behind someone. That's probably a more useful device when traveling 40 mph, but I liked riding behind Ms. Fossey. At the Wilson light, I really wanted to tell her that she was a great alpha bitch, but I thought she might get offended. I mean, what if she was a granolian nun? Do those exist?

We passed Carol's Pub, approaching a difficult intersection. I have a tough time here, because there's a park to the west, traffic coming at you in four directions, wily children, and distracted parents parallel parking quickly because they're late for the game. This is an intersection where pushy bikers make careful bikers look bad. Many a cyclist flies through without hesitation. A mother with a stroller walks west as myself and Dian slowly creep north. The mother slows her pace, protecting her cub. What would Dian do? I'll tell you. She came to a complete stop and gave that mommy the go ahead. At this point, I decided Dian was a childless hippie woman who dedicated her life to helping orphans learn about nature. She didn't care about the new liquor and candy tax hike because all she eats is twigs and berries. While we waited for the stroller, I examined Dian's legs, free of spider veins and cellulite.

We rode on, passed young bikers, male bikers, road bikes, we were unstoppable. I knew this trip would be over soon. The urge to tell her she was a badass was overwhelming, but I couldn't express myself perfectly without the aid of my pottymouth. Would she be the type of woman who has a great recipe for oatmeal cookies? Or does she know how to change the oil in a 65 Mustang? Maybe she watches French documentaries. Oh, the fun times we could have together! But at the intersection of Clark and Ashland, near Gethsemane nursery, I almost lost her. For some reason, I let myself get hung up behind a very noisy Harley Davidson at a red light. Not Dian. She curled right around that large hairy man, and took advantage of the unspoken bike rules of the road, carefully advancing through that pesky red.

The stale green at Clark and Ridge was in my sights. I would have a chance to express my gratitude and admiration for Dian's braid, and legs, and ability to accelerate through a yellow light. This was it. A full, rush hour red light complete with green left arrows, and I said... I said nothing. There was room for both of us in the turn lane. I could have easily sidled up to her and at least said, "Nice pace." No, I chickened out. I was on the fence a little about going straight to the gym from work, but Dian pushed me in the right direction when I saw her bolt northward. My jaunt was done, her journey had probably only begun.

Go alpha bitch badass, go.