I'm a filthy bike-looker. It's impossible not to notice the wide variety of analog machines hitched like horses to post in this town. The more I ride my own bike, the less I can keep my eyes off the saddle of another, the angle of a top tube, the craft of handlebar tape. Some bikes are so eccentric I become familiar with where they're usually parked. I know that the chartreuse tall bike lives on Hawthorne, the orange furry bike with plastic flowers sticks close to Alberta. I noticed the sheer volume of all-white bikes before I noticed that they never moved. I thought they were art projects for fixie fans or trophies, more to look at rather than to ride until my girlfriend reporting seeing these white bikes in her town too and sent me a local article about the emergence of ghost bikes as memorials to bicyclists killed on the street. Ghost bikes are aptly named as the imagery is certainly haunting.
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| Brett Jarolimek ghost bike |
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