The bike share station that got installed a couple of blocks away from my apartment this week is not for me.
I have a bike. I have a car too. I use the bike mostly for exercise. The car is for driving to work and back and to run errands. Most of the time it’s parked in the space below my apartment. When I work, I park it in the next block or two over since the bike share station that arrived two weeks ago took out the parking outside the newsroom.
None of this should be skin off my nose, given that the newsroom is moving a mile or so away next month from our ground-floor former bank across the street from a Sears-turned-Uber-rehab site to a third-floor building suite with a lakeside view and even scarcer streetside parking (and a bike share station steps away).
As it turns out, I can walk to the new newsroom. I’ll still have to drive there in case I’m asked to go out to cover some stories in person. But it feels weird, and I feel weird about it feeling weird. It’s just more change, steady, inexorable and most likely uncomfortable.
The bikes are here. I didn’t choose them. They spook me because they’re not meant for me, not even if the mini-billboard next to them features a more handsome and helmet-less demographic doppelgänger. Maybe there’s a market, and the people who can actually afford the newer apartment rents or latest mortgage payments will take to them. It’s not like I have a lawn I can tell it to get off, right?
Who thinks about how a post-carbon future might look until it lands on the edge of their block and says there’s an app for that?