I was reading the minutes from the UW Senate meeting that took place in mid-October (my first ever; we were praised for our quick comprehension of the remote voting buttons; bravo, over-educated us) and I recalled that during the "wolne wnioski" part of the meeting (the last part, when the floor is open for any new business) one senator asked the Rector if there were changes foreseen to improve the technological infrastructure of the Senate meeting room. The Rector then began explaining that laptops were welcome, and as long as Senators vote and do not appear to be browsing facebook during meetings, he has no problem with us bringing our equipment into the meeting. Eyes turned toward those few in the room who were typing away (presumably recording the discussion for the benefit of their constituents). Then the senator said, "Well, specifically, I was asking about power outlets." The Senate meeting room has no available power outlets. So the Rector replied, "Hhmmmm."

This exchange was not recorded in the minutes.

One difference between 28- and 26-inch wheels is that I can't lean into my turns as much now. I used to be a giant slalom kind of biker, now I'm a simple slalom kind of biker. Other changes include having to pitch my torso forward (because the handlebars are low and cannot be raised) enough that checking what is going on behind me is a little precarious. But don't worry, I'm getting used to it. Also to the male frame, which requires adapting to a different embarkation/debarkation technique.

The crucial issue is how light it is, and how the smaller wheels make it easier to pedal. I had no idea the difference would be so detectable.

In case You need a specific instantiation of the source of my scorned-lover feelings toward Warsaw.

Today I ran in the annual Nike Run Warsaw 10K. I've been running in this race for the past 7 years or however long it has been going on. Every year, as I run by people standing on the sidewalk and gaping at the thousands of passing runners, I cheer for us. I clap and yell, I hoot. I shout thanks those who respond in some way -- by clapping or cheering. I am pleased when this happens. Most of the time they just sort of stare at me blankly. Even those spectators who are not there by accident (i.e., they have a sign that says "GO MAMA!!", and aren't standing at a bus stop wondering when this goddamn river of runners will dry up and the bus will finally come) do not seem to consider that they *could* cheer on more than just their single runner out of 10,000. I mean, geez. Are the rest of us invisible? Would we not appreciate Your love? Would it not give us strength? Would it cost You too much to give?

So I'm running along, at my near-snail's pace, cheering for myself and others, and I wonder how fast I would be running if I weren't expending energy on cheering. Energy it would be nice to be ABSORBING from the crowd, rather than EMITTING it towards them.

At kilometer 3 my yells are met with a response from another runner. "JASIA?! I *knew* I would be able to identify You! There might be 10,000 people here but I *knew* that only You would be thanking the spectators for being here!" Yes, I'm that predictable. And, sadly, so are the people surrounding me.

Eight years I've been doing this, as a runner and as a spectator, at various races in Warsaw. Agitating the crowd. Trying to model supportive behavior. Expressing that I'm *enjoying* myself, which no one else appears to be.

Has my effort made any kind of impact? No.

I think, during these races, surrounded by thousands of my cityfolk, "am I really the only one who WANTS to be here with the rest of You? The only one glad to be sharing these moments? With You, fellow Varsovians? With Warsaw itself?" What are they all doing here, in that case? Is each of these people here for themselves alone? Not even a little for the rest of us?

Fine. Well. Maybe I don't want to be here either, in that case.

The kicker: as I walk home, still in my running gear, with my medal dangling from my neck, an old man passes me and says, "Pedały biegają i nie ma jak dojechać!"

The short-cropped, minimally made-up woman sitting next to me on the bus today turned out to be a short-cropped, not at all made-up boy when he answered his phone. I guess puberty hit his larynx before it got to his facial hair follicles.