I’ve had two bikes stolen in my life. The first was some 8 years ago after learning that in Portland, a cable lock is not the impenetrable fortress that it is in Michigan. The second was after a long evening of Jameson shots. My champion drinking comrade and I thought her lock we were sharing was safely secured to both our frames parked outside Union Jacks. Upon returning, it turned out she’d managed to lock up only my wheel and her frame. My wheel was still there. The frame was long gone.
Both were saddening experiences, though neither bike had that much personality. I hadn’t figured out exactly what my preferred ride was yet anyways. I don’t think I’d even given either bike a name. Today, if I lost the Silver Surfer or Victoria, I’d be devastated.
After a theft, the first place people go is social media, announcing to the world the tragic injustice that’s befallen them, asking everyone to keep their eyes open in the very real hope somebody will get it back to them somehow. Comments rapidly accrue – offers of empathy, promises to watch for the bike, affirmations of the burning circles of hell awaiting the thief in question.
