Well, it finally happened. Following a lifelong trend of unsavory persons easily violating my poor security measures, my bicycle, a rare and highly treasured Gary Fisher Artemis, has been stolen. Why, you ask? Why would such a vile act befall a kindhearted spirit such as me? Mostly, because I was my usual dumb self and put my bike out on my back patio without a lock on Saturday night. I had to move her out of my office because I have the kind of apartment where either bikes or humans can inhabit a room - both won't fit if you actually want to open drawers or move your arms. Of course, I can't ignore the secondary cause, stated so eloquently by my little sister this morning: "people are awful." In any case, I went outside to grab her this morning, and she was gone! A flower pot had been moved off the fence, and a lighter had been dropped by the thief. Other than that, not so much as a drop of chain lube remained to suggest my singular cycle, named for the twin sister of Apollo, had ever rested there.
I put more miles on Artie than any other bike I've owned. Despite her modest price tag, I kept her in good shape and replaced her creaky bits frequently. She got me to work, to meetings, to lunch, and around town on the weekends. Her oversized tires, once referred to by a man on the bus as "some big 'ol baloney skins!" kept me comfortable over curbs, potholes, and the generally decrepit tarmac found throughout my fair city.
My prospects for finding Artie aren't good. I fastidiously ignored all the things you're supposed to do - I don't have a recent picture of her with her new riser stem or fancy white pedals, I never wrote her serial number down, and I didn't stuff any identifiable documents into the seat tube. I'm a terrible father, I know. I DID file a report with SJPD (who I'm sure have their finest detectives on the case as we speak - hey, that bike was over $400!), and I went by the most notorious hangout spot for runaway bikes on my way into work. No luck. Anyone want to join me at the flea market this weekend?
So, take it from me, folks. Even if you live in a quiet, secure neighborhood like East San José, your patio is a very, very bad place to keep your bike. I've realized that, once I get a new ride, there are like 23.75 hours a day that my shower isn't in use - storage situation fixed!
In memorial, some footage of Artie doing what she did best, hauling me around, representing the Bicycle Coalition:
P.S. Seriously, though - if you think you see my bike, shoot me an email at email@example.com or call the office at (408) 287-7259, x. 224.