Lament

I saw it coming.

Finally shook a nut off a bolt on my bike that I couldn't
repair "temporarily" with a nylon tie. I adore hardware
stores, but my needs are so random these days that
buying replacement nuts and bolts confounds me.

So before I rode downtown Tuesday afternoon I rolled
into a new bikeshop around the corner on Morton near
Hudson Street to see if they'd replace the lost nut on
one of the throughbolts that form the left pedal. The
guy was very sweet. While we were chatting he swiped
a noticeable section of my very rusty chrome back fender
with the steelwool he'd been using. It cleaned right up.

"Don't do that!" I exclaimed in alarm. Before the words
were out of my mouth he understood that the rust is
crucial to my anti-thief-magnet protection. Who'd steal
a blue Taiwan no-name girl's rusty three-speed that's
held together by nylon ties? That's exactly the way
I want it–and sound mechanically. (I got it without
provenance at a block sale–equivalent to a small-town
yard sale–early this decade. I'd envisioned it for
two weeks and recognized it the instant I laid eyes
on it, at exactly the price I'd projected, $25.)

From there I rode downtown and parked on a busy block,
Church near Chambers, at an oddly always-vacant rack.
Especially odd this year; parking competition feels
like it's doubled since fall. When streetpeople or
whoever they are rifle through my book bag handlebar
"basket," they take everything worth pennies or nickels
but have enough sense to disdain the stacked empty paper
coffee cups. While I was shopping, someone unscrewed
the bracket and stole the only thing of "value," a
99-cent-store novelty bike bell–twirl the Tonka Toy
truck tire to sound the bell it covers–and the
paper cups ferchrissakes.

I got a really creepy presentiment that intensified
when I noticed the Tonka Toy tire in the gutter …
something more lurking. That wasn't hypo-petty
thievery, it was unprovoked vandalism, on a busy
midafternoon sidewalk. I once idly watched a grossly
obese homeless woman strip to her skivvies on Pier
25 and take a cold public shower, then the gardenhose
nozzle. For what? (I wouldn't have gone out of my
way to do so, but as I left I did rat her out to a pier
guy I knew would handle the situation sensibly. The
next day the nozzle was back on the hose where it
belonged. The custodian and dozens of beach volleyball
players and other people used them all the time.)

By the time I got home Tuesday my front tire was
flat, or nearly. The cap was on the valve; it stood
to reason the vandal hadn't let the air out, then
taken time to replace the cap. Lotsa new potholes
and torn-up streets out there. Still. … Even
more than when I saw the toy tire in the gutter,
my spider-sense sent an alert to brace for worse.
Now, that's not a feeling I get often–I'm not sure
I ever had it before. It was quite conscious
each time. Papers are full of rising-crime statistics.
I don't believe the lower NYC numbers. My nabe
weeklies' police-blotter columns are catalogs
of a stunning amount of random non-fatal daytime
street crime on blocks I walk and ride all the time.

Life goes on. Pumped the tire Wednesday morning
and it seemed to be holding at least enough to ride
for awhile, but I had other things to do Wednesday
and Thursday. I diagnosed it as a fast slow-leak,
cause unknown. If I were working I'd take it to
the new bikeshop. Since I'm not, I'd monitor the
situation and d.i.y. in two Time's Up expert-supervised
workshops over on East Houston Street next week.
Without more pumping, softish Thursday evening,
but enough pressure left to ride.

Went out to check again Friday morning. Two strange
bikes were chained to "my" no-parking sign. Overnight,
my bike had been stolen.

My heart is broken.

I loved that bike. I loved breaking out the light oil
and footpump to prep it for the first ride in spring.
I loved it in the fall, especially after I got my $1
glaring pumpkin-yellow 100 per cent-synthetic Hurricane,
West Virginia, Goodwill vest. I loved dreaming all
winter about riding in summer.

And oh how I loved riding it in summer! I loved riding
the river path to my favorite piers before the Hudson
River Park Trust blocked bike access to the river.
I loved discovering low-traffic shortcuts. I loved how
much more courteous NYC drivers are than I'd ever have
expected. I loved how much bolder I got every year:
already this year, lower Broadway, which I'd never have
considered riding even a year ago. I was so phobic about
riding the streets when I bought it I planned to ride
only the Hudson bikepath and used to park overnight
as close as I could to the river. What a wimp! (Fact
is, when I had my first three-speed long ago that
fear was valid. The surge in cycling popularity keeps
drivers alert today. Absolutely: safety in numbers.)

I loved adapting that book bag I scavanged from my
building's trash to a handlebar bag. I loved finding
my 99-cent-store blinking LEDs and Tonka Toy truck tire
bell, and a reasonably priced xenon headlight (bracket
still on handlebar) and bike gloves. I loved finding
a clean old copy of Tom Cuthbertson's "Anybody's Bike
Book" at the used bookstore on Mercer Street.

I love a bike's balanced efficiency as transportation,
my only purpose in cycling since I was a lonely rider
to school. Way faster than walking, yet you're equally
a part of your environs. I've never owned a car. This
bike was my fifth, my third three-speed, the first
I've ever lost this way. (Sure wish now I had #2
three-speed–abandoned along with my sloop.)

I loved my bike, and I loved how uncool my bike was.

I'll always remember fondly the Pier 26 River Project
custodian, a dude from–as I recall–was it Guana? He
was a pal, and also seemed to be the only other being
who really got that scruffy bike. A connoisseur
of the vintage, he identified details that gave away
when it was built–maybe 30 years ago. He warned me never
to leave it unsecured: Even if no self-respecting bike
thief would want it, one might grab it for a single
convenience or joy ride. However much I loved my bike,
snob that I am, I never gave it the respect it deserved.
He did. Taking care to cover it with a tarp in rain and
snow was just not enough. Obsessed with investing in it
in proportion to what it cost, I refused to buy a chain
and lock that would have cost way more than the bike.
He tried to let me know subtly the stupid false economy
that was. In aggravation, replacement will cost me the
price of a custom-built.

I filed a stolen property report today. He may have been
a bit baffled, but at least the Sixth Precinct clerk
who took the info wasn't as insulting as I'd feared for
property of such trivial book value. If my bike is now
only a memory and digital image, I owe it at least the
tribute of becoming an actual statistic, too. (Take
that, NYPD crime stats.)

If he hadn't been so nice, I'd blame it all on the
bikeshop dude whose steelwool compromised my poor
bike's invisibility. You don't just go out and buy a $25
mechanically-sound Taiwan no-name girl's rusty three-speed
that's held together by nylon ties on any block. Whatever
will I do now? … Waaaah. I want my bike back.

<Update 19 June 2006: Called the Sixth Precinct
today as instructed, to get the case number for my
stolen property report. The guy said, Oh–I remember
you. He was kind enough not to add, We'd never had a
complaint about so trifling a loss. But I needed some
kind of ritual. The call was the benediction to the
three-speed's funeral. Then I took PATH to Jersey City.
After a test ride I left a 50 per cent deposit to hold
this 18-speed [later: whoops–the Craig's List ad for

a "Stillwater Pass," good condition, $50, expired so
I deleted the url; here's the photo it featured]. The
owner needs it for transportation till she moves to
London in a week. Said she'd bought it in D.C. from
someone who'd had it stored in the attic for a few
years. It's the only Craig's List bike I inquired
about. Just felt right, online and on the street.
I also bought the Kryptonite U-lock in the photo
(one has kept an abandoned ATB secure at my front
door for better than a year) since it was $5 extra,
a helluva lot more affordable than the case-hardened
chain and padlock I'd much prefer. The saddle is
luxurious–looks vulnerable; concern for parts theft
is a new sensation. Now I can say this: Truth to tell,
I'd started looking longingly a few weeks ago at
small-frame fat-tire bikes (especially the one that's
no worse for wear after long abandonment at my front
door); assumed none were in my price range. The
three-speed–photos scattered through previous pages
here–is slow and poised to take a steep geriatric
dive: both tires bald and dry, front tube leaking, chain
jerky in low, gears never worked right, nor did even the
kickstand–etc. Given that I paid as much to replace the
brake cables as I paid for the bike, new repairs coulda
cost as much as the 18-speed, more in time if d.i.y.
Some thief's problems now or his sucker customer's,
no longer mine. In a stretch of rationalization, I
could say the thief did me a favor by forcing me to
check out the market. That bike served me faithfully.
I loved it dearly, but I was ready for a change.
We've gone overnight from (F) low-50s temps to the
90s. This week is going to be like winter dreaming
of summer riding, but in sweltering heat.>

<Update 26 June 2006: Picked up the 18-speed
(a Roadmaster–"Stillwater Pass" is the model–sold
by, among others I presume, Walmart) near Jersey City's
Colgate Center ferry terminal this afternoon. Waved
goodbye to the seller, a young Romanian financial
analyst, off tomorrow to a new life in London, she
hopes maybe as a touring tennis pro. After the quick
Hudson River crossing, I rode the West Street bike
route home. Awkwardly. I'd brought vise-grips
instead of a wrench (I know, I know) and adjusted
the seat height easily. But the handlebar needs
an Allen wrench (I don't have one the right size)
adjustment before I can ride comfortably. Once that's
done, I expect to be a happy cyclist again. I've
never ridden an 18-speed and googled a blessedly
clear,
concise gears how-to page; am eager to browse the
rest of the bicycleuniverse.info site.
The bike's secure in my backyard, but getting it
up three front steps and forcing open the door
simultaneously test my strength. Though embarrassed,
I welcome help now when offered. When I ride daily
I'd rather park at a shaded ad hoc spot out front.
After fierce competition a month ago, the few makeshift
bike parking places near my front door have been
suspiciously vacant for days. Wonder if bad things
have happened to other bikes locked there since mine
was stolen. Hmmm. Maybe Albert knows what's going on.
His old bike was stolen from there a few years ago.