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| Have you seen me? |
Did you even look at it before you stole it? Did you notice how it was dented in places, and covered in scratched, water-faded, crude stickers? How everything not painted over was rusting, and had been for some time? Did you try to adjust the seat so you could ride a hasty retreat, only to discover it was rusted in place at the perfect height for its rightful owner?
Didn't you look at the pedals, and realize you'd need special shoes to use them, and that one pedal was actually broken? I hope you tried to ride it away. I tried to ride it without bike shoes once--the specialized pedals rotated under the flat soles of my shoes and I racked my nuts good on the top tube. Hopefully whatever pitiful genitalia you have suffered the same fate. I'd almost pay to watch that.
I'd had that bike for about five years. That's twice as old as my son. I'd ridden it regularly for years as my one and only. Motor vehicles have come and gone and broken down, but I always had that bike. For a couple of years it's been the only way I could get to work. I slowly upgraded some of its parts, but I wasn't greedy. Some new handlebar tape here, wheels from Craig's List there, a sticker or two. As I mentioned before, almost everything was rusted into place so I never had to fuss with it. It was beat up and kinda ugly, but it had personality. Just like me. And it did exactly what I wanted it to do every time I needed it, even when I neglected it.
I learned how to truly ride on the bike you took. I learned to enjoy riding in shitty weather, when the wind was so strong I thought my lips were bleeding from the impact of the rain and each gust almost pushed me into another lane entirely. I learned how to survive traffic, and not in bike-friendly Portland, but military-happy Norfolk, where young kids with too much government pay tested how close they could buzz me in their souped-up cars and the roads looked like they'd been through a war. I learned the simplicity of fixed-gears, and that if I wanted to go faster I had to love the burning in my legs and do it myself. I learned track stands and skid-stops and foot-downs and alley cats and a dozen other ridiculous, amazing, enjoyable things. I met some fantastic people, one of whom became a great friend, because of that bike. And now it's gone. Not because of an accident or old age, but because some piece of shit decided to take it.
Now, I have to spend what little money I have on getting a new bike. You probably saw my aunt's house, with her hot tub and Mercedes and meals cooked by something other than a microwave and thought, "Dayum, they must be loaded! They won't even notice!" Well I'm not loaded, and my bank account is definitely going to notice. The money you've forced me to spend was supposed to go towards a new apartment, but I can't exactly go without transportation, can I? Your shitty crime has put me between a rock and a hard place, and I can only hope you get busted for something worse one day, finding yourself in prison between two men (or women, whichever is worse) of ill-intent named Rock and Hard Place. Preferably in the shower. With broom handles.
Have you ever had dental work done? You know how your mouth feels foreign for a couple days afterward, like not everything is fitting together the way it used to, and you can't stop noticing it even though it's driving you crazy? That's what it's going to be like for me with a new bike. The endless tinkering. The adjustments. The worrying that my seat isn't the right height and it's going to blow my knee out. Luckily I found what frame size I use from an old e-mail, because I sure as hell don't remember that shit. I figured I'd never need to know, or to re-adjust anything, you dickless/titless bastard.
Some of that shit can't be replaced! The only things of worth on that bike to anyone but me are the wheels, and the sprocket. The retro-reflective Deep-V wheels aren't made anymore, and I doubt I can find them again. Besides looking cool and being rare, they were a safety feature that increased my visibility at night, especially in the headlights of a car. They were scratched up too, so I doubt they're worth very much. The sprocket came from a bloke in Australia and had a lifetime warranty. It's beefy and well made and would have lasted me forever. I'm not sure that he's still making them. Even some of the stickers were the last of their kind. So thanks for that, dick/bitch.
Worse probably still, is now I'll have to worry about every subsequent bike I purchase. I shouldn't have to be thinking, "Well maybe I should have locked my bike to something, inside of the locked garage, which you can only enter through the locked fence into the yard..." More than my bike, you've stolen my sense of security. If it had been left out in plain view, that's one thing. But inside a locked garage? That's just... ridiculous. And kind of scary.
I'm happy to report that my bike's serial number, make, and model were registered with the National Bike Registry, and I have reported your theft to the Portland Police Department, along with Craig's List and BikePortland.org. With any luck I'll get it back and you'll have to suffer for taking it. Bike theft probably isn't very high up on the scale of things, but I'm sure breaking and entering are. Like I said, inside of a locked garage is another thing entirely, and the locksmith just confirmed you did actually break in. We didn't forget to lock shit.
Maybe you're just some kid being retarded or something, I don't know. Everyone does stupid shit in their lives. If my bike just magically reappears I'll close the police report and everything. But I doubt that will happen. I'm sure Jenny is going through the bicycle version of a chop-shop, getting cannibalized for parts and sold for scrap. Which is a shame, because to me there was no better bike out there. Seriously.
So eat shit and die, you terrible fuck. Jesus, what's wrong with you?
- David
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