bicycle, Bicycle, BICYCLE!

This is a story of perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever. And then one of the worst.

On my thirteenth birthday my father took me to buy a BRAND NEW bicycle. This was truly an epic event. At his suggestion, we were about to spend a boatload of money on something we could have gotten used (where my thriftiness comes from should be evident at this juncture).

So we go to Andy's, the lovely local bike shop in my home town and spend upwards of $250 on a beautiful, shiny, red and silver Specialized Hard Rock mountain bike. I loved that bike. We rode to the pool in the summer, to work at my first job at the snack shack, to high school, to Prime Roast, just to ride... I took it everywhere, always.

After it was stolen and recovered (amazingly, three months later) I equipped her with a hot pink milk crate where her wire basket had been, to further insure the thieves wouldn't nab my bicycle again. You can imagine that this created quite an eye-catching ride, there was no mistaking that bike belonged to me.

So, one day I am riding this bike that I love down Main St, when an enormous, shady van slows WAY down behind me. They keep this speed going for about thirty seconds, enough to make me seriously concerned, before they pull up right next to me with the windows down. Not wanting to make eye-contact I am watching this all through my peripheries and experiencing their presence with every bone in my body (terrified, and still pedaling), and was jolted when at full volume they blasted "bicycle, Bicycle, BICYCLE. I want to ride my..." and drove away.

Here I was thinking I was about to die of abduction, instead I just died of laughter. It was perfect. It was one of those moments that I keep in my back pocket and pull out to look at on rainy days.

Naturally, I grew so confident in the fact that no one would steal my bike again that she was stolen. This time never to be recovered.

That bike taught me many things; the joy and freedom that only being on a bike can give you, how unnecessary cars are for most things, my father doesn't skimp when he knows there will be long-term value to his purchase, and a deep hatred of bicycle thieves. Stealing a bike is a very personal attack; the owner suffers more than the thief could know. Zarra's bike of fifteen years was stolen out of his house this morning and has brought some old emotions to the surface.

There are two morals to this story:

1. Don't steal bikes.
2. Listen to Queen.

On a side note, I now ride one of two beautiful bicycles on a regular basis (weather providing); A black and white 1970's Phillips English three speed by the name of Phillip, and a silver Puegeot ten speed with a pedal-powered head light (relatively new to the family and lacking both name and gender- but not at all lacking for speed). They are magnificent and bring me much joy.

As a friend of mine once said, "Bikes are pasta-powered."

And another, "Sex, bikes, rock-n-roll."

And me, "If I can't bike there, it isn't worth going."