R.I.P.

My bike was stolen this weekend.

It’s my own damn fault, and I even admitted just this past weekend that I’ve been tempting fate. I’ve been leaving it under the deck on the ground level of the building, sometimes locked, sometimes not. I figured it was at least a calculated risk, since that area is accessible only via a 10-foot tall locked gate. Only the other people in the building can (theoretically) get in and out, and I doubt anybody else in the condo building walked off with my bike. Even though I kind of hated it, it was still my bike, and it’s still a violation of my property.

I got this bike when I was 8 or 9. It was my first “grown-up” bike; its predecessor boasted a trendy banana seat with the Pink Panther on it and lots of pink ribbons flowing from the handlebars. The grown-up bike had “CHEROKEE” written along the frame, had 10 speeds, and was a mountain bike well-suited to either trails or streets. It was also a heavy motherfucker that left dozens of bruises on my right thigh whenever I’d carry it up and down the two flights of stairs to my apartment. The gears had gotten pretty creaky, and the gizmo that held the D-lock to the frame didn’t really fit, so the D-lock would flap back and forth when I’d ride, leaving ever more bruises on my legs.

The frame was a little small for me, but it got me places. As an adult, I only ever rode it from Point A to Point B, leaving the athletic 30-mile rides to the people with nice, light bikes with smooth gears. But I’d been using it a lot lately to get to and from the gym and the Metra in a timely manner, and God knows it saved me from missing the 8:46am Metra more than a few times.

But no longer. Wherever you are, Bike, I hope you’re okay and not being used for scrap metal. I’m sorry we can’t be together anymore, but maybe you’ll find somebody who bitches a little bit less about your flaws. After all, your heavy bruising frame wasn’t your fault, and we all get a little creaky and rusty with age. R.I.P.

* * *

current book: Will hopefully finish The Book of Illusions tonight or tomorrow morning. The story has been quite a page-turner, although less beautifully written than I had hoped.

current music: Strangely, another quiet day. Except for when all the lights in the office went off at exactly six minutes after the hour, every hour, all day long. Then I got to hear all the mumbles and grumbles of my co-workers. You’d think they’d appreciate a break from the brutal fluorescence of our office lights.