Be at One with the bike-stealer

Last Wednesday on my way to work at 8:15 a.m. I innocently parked my bike outside the 7-11 at Arlington and Ellice went into the store, turned my back for a few seconds and .... I probably don’t need to finish that sentence, bike theft is so rampant in this town that almost everyone who’s had the pleasure of owning a bike has also had the unpleasant experience of having one stolen.

I have nearly a dozen stolen bikes stolen in my life time, some from inside locked garages others that were chained up outside with a cable or a u-lock, this latest loss is the first one to be stolen for not having been secured in some way. Do I feel like a dolt for leaving my bike unguarded for a minute and a half on a Wednesday morning in the sometimes mean part of town I call home? Yes. Does it frustrate the hell out of me that some immoral punk stole my mode of transportation just so he could get from A to B a bit faster? Absolutely. But this time around I’m more philosophical about the whole affair. Perhaps there is some greater reason why my luck turned so sour for that brief instant last week when I made the fatal mistake of stopping for a lousy 7-11 sandwich because I hadn’t the groceries to make one at home.

By design I stopped buying expensive looking bikes after I lost a very nice Kona mountain-bike in record time (I think I had it for about four months) to someone who had mastered the art of cracking open a u-lock with a Bic pen. For my next bike I invested in a custom built one-speed on an older ten-speed frame thinking that it would be a great commuter bike and also less valuable to any potential bike-stealer. It’s certainly not the style of bike that yields much of a return at the pawn shop or on Craig’s List. However, one morning two springs ago I woke up to the unpleasant reality that any bike—regardless of the fact that it is chained up to an iron railing, regardless of the fact that it is loved the same way as a rider on the range loves his faithful horse—is considered fair game by the petty crooks of this fair city.

Much as I had grown to love that simple bike—the way it suited my riding style; its funky, modernist graphics; the speed we could achieve together when a sharp gust blew up behind us—I now had to live with the fact that someone who owned a pair of bolt-cutters decided he needed it more than I did. Losing that bike really hurt. It shook my faith in my city and destroyed my sense of security. And it made me so angry. I ogled every red bike that passed me for about a year always hoping that I would see someone riding it past a place where I had access to a large rock that I might use to smash in his head.

This time though I’m determined not to dwell on my misfortune. Despite the fact that I loved that bike like I loved that last one and have zero insurance to replace it with, my revenge fantasies are softened by the inner calm that comes with acceptance. In truth I care about my bike far more than anything else I own, but living in a neighborhood where constant vigilance is a primary directive is my choice, and having crimes perpetrated against me here in my ‘hood is simply a statistical matter of fate. It seems useless to take it too personally. I hate being ripped off as much as the next man, but in the end stuff is just stuff and it can, and will always be, replaced with more stuff.

No amount of grief or desire for justice will change the fact that my pretty blue one-speed, with the manufacturer’s cute inscription “WORLD’S FINEST BICYCLE BY SEKINE” affixed to the frame, has been rustled by some cowardly bike-stealer. I don’t hate this city and I don’t hate the dirty rat who stole my most prized possession without a whiff of conscience. As I am thoroughly aware of by now, bikes come and go and rotten stuff happens to good people all the time. There is nothing to be done but to try and find myself another bike to love. Nevertheless, if I happen to see someone riding that particular one-speed down the road, and there’s a big rock near by....