by Al Drinkle
I was out of town for the weekend when I received the heartbreaking news. My friend and colleague, Sarah, had been involuntarily relieved of her beloved bicycle. It was a true rarity; a beautiful purple Nishiki, probably 40-years-old but seemingly ageless. Little by little, Sarah customized it to her own specifications, in the process managing to improve a bicycle that was immaculate from the outset… And then somebody stole it.
Despite conscious efforts to avoid excessive sentimentality for material possessions, I'm very familiar with the extent to which one can become attached to a bicycle. Flann O'Brien details this most consummately, and hilariously, in his posthumously-published novel The Third Policeman. The story features bicycle-obsessed police officers whose fellow villagers have spent so much time on bikes that human and machine have begun to absorb each other's atoms and characteristics. When walking, the people must move at a certain speed lest they fall to one side or the other, and must prop themselves against a means of support when at a standstill. Similarly, the bicycles of the village have been known to sneak about on their own accord, relocating to cozier environs or oddly parking themselves in front of refrigerators. But this is only far-fetched in the scientific sense, and anybody who has spent innumerable fond hours on a particular bicycle would concede that their affection for the object is of kindred nature.
Along this line of thought, bike thieves should be vilified with the same merciless execration that we feel for black market organ harvesters. To steal a bike that has carried its companion countless miles in sun and rain, during night and day, on paths urban and pastoral, is to deprive someone of an irreplaceable part of themselves. No punishment would be unreasonable, and perhaps unbeknownst to us, a just atonement will be served in the next life.
But life is hard, and each of us can bemoan a multiplicity of tribulations. Destitution, addiction and the erosion of mental health are serious maledictions of society, and perhaps I should be more sympathetic to what might be less a malevolently self-entitled act, and more a signifier of the chronic sickness of humanity. Can the particular thief be blamed, or are they just trying to navigate this oppressive world the only way they can? This is no more reassuring, and it remains an untenable thought that one need be deprived of their means of transportation (sentimentality aside) so that another can go on a joyride, chase a high, or simply fulfill their miserable function in an oppressive world. When I behold a beautiful vintage bicycle, I see a characterful ticket to freedom. To somebody else, it's just a bag of crack. There’s something wrong with us.
My own ancient Nishiki was stolen from outside of Metrovino just over 10 years ago. I thought of nothing else during my time without it, and every single bike that went by caught my eye. Several days later I was dining in a restaurant on 1st Street, having selected a seat facing the sidewalk “in case my bike goes by,” I explained to my wife and in-laws. AND IT FUCKING DID!!!! I almost toppled the table as I dashed outside and tackled the rider, the two of us spilling into bewildered motorists. He recognized me as a man possessed and relinquished the bike with little resistance. I still ride it almost every day and have found that as its fondness for Riesling has increased over the years, my immobile balance has been incrementally compromised.
As for Sarah's Nishiki, the entire Metro crew was crestfallen over its disappearance. We hoped that her and the bike had exchanged enough atoms that it would have a sympathetic ear for the morose plucking of her heartstrings, eventually finding its way back to her. AND IT FUCKING DID!!!! The sonorous lament was heard, the forlorn summoning heeded, and when Sarah and a friend were walking down 17th Ave a few nights ago, they discovered her Nishiki locked to a random bike rack… uncannily with her lock (which had visibly been corrupted)! She unlocked it and rode away, reunited and elated. Nishikis must be amongst the most loyal of bicycles, or at least the most efficient atom-exchangers... They always return to their friends.
