So, today, my bike was stolen. Well, it was probably stolen last night. I know that it’s just a material object and that many worse crimes occur every day, but I can’t help but be shaken up and saddened by this. First and foremost, my bike was my most prized possession. I bought it a few years ago from the sort of bike shop where you’re more likely to see a Hispanic kid getting his low rider tricked out than to find a bubblegum pink beach cruiser. As soon as I stumbled upon it, I knew it was my bike.
It was slow and heavy and had coaster brakes. It was cumbersome and wobbly. It was majestically geeky and unabashedly girly. It was neither sleek nor practical and, the second I sat my butt in the wide, springy saddle seat and started the white wall tires rolling down Passyunk Avenue, I was in love. Within 20 minutes, I had a yellow receipt, a titanium lock, a white basket for the handle bars, and a new best friend. I christened her Melonie (after the 70’s pop star) because she didn’t go too fast, but she went pretty far.
For two years, I rode my rusty old cruiser alongside friends on road bikes. I rode her to picnics on the river and to see The Flaming Lips. She was not easy to ride uphill and her chain guard was a little squeaky, but she got plenty of attention from friends and strangers alike.
When I moved back into my parents’ house and felt like my life was coming undone at the seams, that bike was my refuge. At first, I would ride it around the neighborhood after it got dark, peddling out all my sadness and regret. Later, when I’d healed a bit, I rode her on the fitness path with the old lady power walkers. I peddled for miles- sweaty, silly looking and angry- until I was smiling again. Later still, when I was being raked over the coals and having my heart broken again, I rode even harder, pretending that those who were hurting me were under the pedals. Lately, in my happiness, I have ridden that bike to release the anxiety that comes from starting a new life, one you’re afraid to loose, and to celebrate my love for the bike and my newfound love for the neighborhood.
So, today, when I first realized that Melonie was gone, I was crushed.
Then, I got angry.
You see, in order to get the bike, the thief had to move a porch-swing, a ream of vinyl siding, a circular saw, and a ton of other construction material, from their path. They had to have done this during a thunderstorm, or in the dead middle of the night. In short, whoever stole my bike had to really want to steal my bike. It’s rusty and old and, frankly, not even worth $30. But, to me, it’s worth the world.
I try to be kind, and I try not to put too much stock in my possessions, but I can assure you all of one thing. If I see the person who took the bike, I will beat the snot out of them. Well, really, I’ll probably just cry. However, as those salty tears roll over my sun kissed cheeks, I will relish the thought of whomever it was suffering their way through all or the bike’s quirks and karma’s slings and arrows.
Someday, I will have another cruiser. Until then, I’ll be power walking with the old ladies and keeping a vigilant eye out for my poor Melonie.
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