Legal Notice for Name Change

This should have been an easy one, just go downtown to the Tribune building with my paperwork, pay them the money and cycle back. Not quite so fast. On the way to the tribune building I unbalanced my bike trying to go around a cone in a construction zone and fell to the ground. I wasn't hurt too badly, but was rattled enough that the next intersection seemed to present a bit of a challenge, what with most of the lanes being blocked off for construction, and I ended up going the wrong way down a one-way street before I realized what I was doing.

It wasn't really a problem, since traffic was almost nonexistent. Except for the cop car about half a block behind. I wondered it he would circle around to catch me after having seen me bypass about ten cars by illegally riding in the construction zone, then making a left turn into the wrong-way street. For a break from the stress, I turned in at the Center and asked C. to let me sit in the basement for a couple of minutes.

On thirteenth street, a sign on the door of the Tribune building announced the Oakland tribune had moved to a new address, an unfamiliar one. A short plump old black woman wearing a winter coat, passing by, directed me to use the 66th street exit near the Colisseum, and said that street was across from the Colisseum. And here's where I went wrong and gave myself a bit of an adventure. I thought to myself, the Colisseum is near BART. If the Tribune street is across from the colisseum, I should be able to get there that way.

Well, I did get there by BART. At the Colisseum station, I went out and looked around. The Colisseum is right there, but no likely candidates for the building in question. The BART agent, a youngish black woman with Doris Day hair, directed me to go across the freeway and then turn right as it would be the first street I came to.

I set off over the overpass. Hairy going, not intended for bikes, but made it. Kept going, looking for a turn. Hmm, there's one, wrong name. More road. More wrong name. Oh, wait, that overpass back there was not for the freeway, it's this one coming up. Okay, fine. Another hairy overpass. Luckily only a medium amount of cars. These shoes I wore were intended for assisting me with looking normal, not biking long distances. They are hurting the spurs on the sides of my feet. The first right is NOT the correct street. It's time for some real help.

Thank God for cell phones. M. looks up the Tribune's address, looks up my location and how to get to the Tribune's address from there. I write it all down on the green steno pad that runs my life and start off again. Another mile and I am there. No bike racks visible, so I walk by bike into the building, getting the security guard's immediate attention, enabling me to get info about location of bike parking.

This is a bike unfriendly building. Not only is it in a location difficult to get to by bike, not only is the bike rack hard to find, it's one of those old-timey ones that assumes you won't need to lock your bike. Ugh. Lift the front wheel and set it on top of the rack to enable locking frame to top bar. Exchange helmet for hat. Lift shoulder bag from bike bag. Add water container to bag.

The Tribune's name shows up on the top floor. Oops. wrong one. Try eleven. Nope, not that one either. How about ten? Nope. Nine? Oh, yeah, that's right. M. told me it was number 950 in the building. I see a door for the TSA. And anther one. Where in the heck is it? TSA officer points out Tribune door. Whew. They're not closed or anything.

It's going to cost $230! Damn. Oh well. Let's get it overwith. After the salesperson copies the info from my court caption, I ask for a refill for my water jug. It's been a long trip and I'm nearly out. The receptionist, a plump middle-aged white woman wearing a yellow cable-knit sweater and glasses, seems uncertain about where she might get some. Don't you have a kitchen here? I ask. You could just put it under the faucet. She says yes, but.. The City of Oakland has excellent water unless your pipes are bad, I say, I would hope the pipes are not bad in this building that is practically brand new. She goes and gets it.

On the way back I stop to thank M. for his help. Take off the awful shoes and walk barefoot most of the way back to BART. I had some trouble with the elevator on the way there, so this time I will try something different. I will go through the bike gate. That means I have to take the bike on the escalator. With the water, the bike is a bit heavy and I have trouble keeping it in place. A kind tall bald black man supports the bike for me. When I get to my home station, I decide to use the elevator again. Good choice. This time the elevator has differently-oriented doors at the concourse than at the platform, so that a bike can forward in and then forward out. As I ride away from the bike gate, my shoe falls off. The same dude who helped me with my bike going up the escalator picks it up for me. He must think I'm a total dork. Oh, well. Nice looking guy.

Main thing is, mission accomplished.