“Ferris – he never drives it. He just rubs it with a diaper.”
When I turned 30 last September, both sides of the family kicked in to help me get a new bike as a present. Touched, I decided to wait until this spring to make the purchase; no need for the bike to sit in the garage getting creaky in the cold Chicago winter. I would take care of this gift.
Last month, after several weeks of comparison shopping, I finally bit the bullet and brought home a new hybrid road/commuter bike. It cost a bit more than I wanted to spend, but it rode so smoothly and leapt ahead like a racehorse when I’d pick up the pace. I envisioned long rides up and down the Lake Shore bike path; me and this bike, we had a bright future.
The next morning I took it for an inaugural spin, not bothering to remove the plastic wrap protecting the handlebar brake controls. I just wanted to enjoy the newness of it for a bit, like those first few days of a new pair of shoes, when they’re scuff-free and you look good.
It didn’t last; the bike was stolen out of our garage the following day.
What could I do but laugh? The answer, of course, is curse the giant turd who stole it. Then I glared at every cyclist that passed, trying to see if the bike had plastic on the handlebar brake controls. I also filed a report with the police, who informed me that the bike was probably sold for a hundred bucks within ten minutes of the theft.
I hemmed and hawed over getting a new/different/used bike. Maybe I should get something that wouldn’t cause me so much agita if it was stolen. In the end, I re-bit the bullet and replaced the bike. After all, it was the one I’d selected after much deliberation, and I knew I’d fume every time I rode the inferior choice down the street. And you should never fume and cycle.
However, now I’m overly paranoid. Instead of storing it in the garage, I keep the bike in the sunroom, secured to the futon frame.
That’s right – I’ve locked my bike to a piece of furniture INSIDE OUR APARTMENT.
“What about my jewelry?” Renate asked, bemused at my efforts. “Should we do something to protect that?”
“I already glued your jewelry to the bottom of the crib,” I replied.
I haven’t even ridden it once. What if someone knocks me over and steals the bike? IT COULD HAPPEN. For now, I’m content to just wander into the sunroom and see it standing there, unstolen, tethered to the futon (aka the bike rack). It’s very beautiful, and very cold, and no one’s allowed to touch anything.