Yesterday played out in an odd way, the morning lovely, a great session with Jill, a ride out to see Deezy at work and an adventure to a potential new abode for him… Until I returned to his office to find my bike stolen. Gone with the wind, as one might say, and yesterday was a windy day.
So windy, I had to wear my sunglasses to keep the wind from making my eyes cry.
Having something stolen from you is a terrible feeling. Coming down to the street, looking at the post where my bike used to be, looking around in an attempt to find whoever may be riding it, and knowing the bike is gone along with the chain locking it to the post. I went to the police department to report it missing, waited ever so briefly behind a woman who was reporting something about her crazy boyfriend and how Barack Obama was failing to help her~had some sort of plan with her boyfriend to fuck up her life, when an officer came out and said he’d take the report but couldn’t do it at this station. So we drove around the corner (kinda awesome riding in the front of the cop car as opposed to the back) to the smaller station, reported the bike missing, and went on my way. No bike.
I never realized how much a bike can make you feel free.
An ex-boyfriend had bought a bike for me once. I told him how, in my first terrible round with cocaine, all I’d wanted to do when I lived in San Diego was ride a bike like the rest of the young beach goers. But my cocaine usage was such that I could never wake up when the bike store was open, and if by some miracle I did crawl off the couch before 7pm, I needed more blow before I could leave the apartment. The entire time I lived at the beach in my 21st year, my eyes were only open at night, and they were less open and more bugged and drugged out. When that boyfriend bought me a bike, a beautiful pink beach cruiser complete with flames on the side and a briiiiiing briiiiing bell for passing, streamers coming from the handle bars, and a basket for groceries or my purse, I rode that thing like it was going out of style. Rode it down the beach. Up the beach. Through the neighborhood and to the store. I rode it further than anybody in that town. The seat was glued to my own. When I broke up with that boyfriend…. I left the bike in the bike room, pissed off about the state of our relationship.
I’ve always been one to drink poison with hopes it kills someone else.
This new bike actually belonged to Deezy, and when I gave up my car, he leant me the bike, knowing how I’d use it more than he could (he’s a 9-5er). It took a while to get back in the groove, but once that groove took over, my boots were no longer made for walking, or driving. They were pedal bound. My love affair with bicycles continued.
It was a shame yesterday to have it stolen, not only because it sucks to be robbed, but because it wasn’t really my bike. It feels even worse to have something stolen that isn’t yours. I felt like I’d developed an even closer bond to Deezy’s bike than my pink cruiser. This bike served a purpose. It actually became my favorite mode of transportation. I loved that bike. And all that it implied.
On the bus home, I kept seeing places where my bike and I had hung out. Cracks on the sidewalk that used to scare me, but the bike and it’s shocks handled nicely. Hills I would hate at the bottom, and laugh at from the top, my legs burning and breath short. Stretches of street where the bike lane disappears and cars would whizz past, within inches of my handle bars.
I saw people everywhere on bikes. More people riding bikes yesterday than I ever saw while I was out and about. Experienced serious pangs of bike envy, always keeping my eyes open for the black and purple beauty that I called my own.
I tweeted obsessively, looking to friends for support in 140 characters or less, and it really helped. More than I imagined it could. I ate lozenges and chewed on straws, pissed off because my bike was a great excuse not to smoke. Up and down, angry then sad. A whole range of emotions, in less than 24 hours.
The night ended on a good note, dinner with Deezy and Mr. Man, a silly romantic comedy on TV, cuddled into the covers and Man arms before midnight.
I suppose terrible no good very bad things can be blessings in disguise. Now, the morning after the death of a relationship with a two wheeled friend, I get to go searching for my dream bike. One that is not a gift. One that I intentionally seek out because I want and need it. One that makes my little heart go pitter pat with each gear shift and a horn that scream AHHHUUUUUUUGGGAAAAA instead of a wussy little briing briiiing.