Stolen Bike
Aw, man, someone crept into our shed last night and stole my Rivendell Rambouillet. (This one's not mine, but mine looked quite similar). I thought I heard something in the backyard when I was putting Mimi to bed, but the dog didn’t bark, so I ignored it.
What’s weird is that I had a dream just as I was falling asleep that I was riding my bike—not the Rambouillet, an old touring bike I no longer have—slowly up a hill and some fat guy pulled me off of it. I tried to punch him in the neck, but that’s when I woke up.
I haven’t had a bike stolen since 10th grade, and it feels just as lousy now. I halfway think if someone was so desperate they had to jack my ride, I’d be willing to give them the money they’d get for fencing it—(don’t tell them that, though.)
The other weird thing is that someone left an old beater mountain bike—partially spray-painted, obviously hot—in the alley by our neighbor’s house. So, did the thief ride up on that one, ditch it, upgrade to the Rambouillet, and ride away?
I’m kicking myself for not locking the shed last night; I’ve gotten careless about that of late. And in part, that’s what I hate about this almost as much as losing the bike: the feeling that it’s my fault somehow, that either I deserved it or at least that I’m complicit—and to the extent that I benefit from an unjust social structure, I guess I do. But that sucks.
Like Pee-Wee in his Big Adventure, I keep picturing the thief riding my bike and it makes my blood boil. They used to execute horse thieves; bike thieves deserve at least a swift kick in the saddle.
Of course, the good news is, no one was hurt, I have my health, and I’ve still got other bikes. But if I see the thief on the Rambouillet, I'm punching his neck.
What’s weird is that I had a dream just as I was falling asleep that I was riding my bike—not the Rambouillet, an old touring bike I no longer have—slowly up a hill and some fat guy pulled me off of it. I tried to punch him in the neck, but that’s when I woke up.
I haven’t had a bike stolen since 10th grade, and it feels just as lousy now. I halfway think if someone was so desperate they had to jack my ride, I’d be willing to give them the money they’d get for fencing it—(don’t tell them that, though.)
The other weird thing is that someone left an old beater mountain bike—partially spray-painted, obviously hot—in the alley by our neighbor’s house. So, did the thief ride up on that one, ditch it, upgrade to the Rambouillet, and ride away?
I’m kicking myself for not locking the shed last night; I’ve gotten careless about that of late. And in part, that’s what I hate about this almost as much as losing the bike: the feeling that it’s my fault somehow, that either I deserved it or at least that I’m complicit—and to the extent that I benefit from an unjust social structure, I guess I do. But that sucks.
Like Pee-Wee in his Big Adventure, I keep picturing the thief riding my bike and it makes my blood boil. They used to execute horse thieves; bike thieves deserve at least a swift kick in the saddle.
Of course, the good news is, no one was hurt, I have my health, and I’ve still got other bikes. But if I see the thief on the Rambouillet, I'm punching his neck.
posted by Professor Dave at 10:33 AM
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