My Dealings with a Bike Thief

My bike was stolen and I got it back. You’d think a story like that would be evergreen, easily incorporated into any conversation. Turns out it’s not and I keep getting asked to “please stop.” So to be sure nothing is lost to the stifling and ungrateful, I will document exactly what happened.

As I was dropping off my recycling on my way to volunteer I noticed my bike lock snipped on the ground. The bike was my dad’s old Schwinn that I asked to borrow 4 years ago and haven’t mentioned since, considering it to be an unspoken gift (he wants it back and considers it theft). I loved the bike and rode it almost everyday. 

The loss was a major blow, but it gave people a reason to feel sorry for me. And if there’s one thing I like more than biking, it’s people’s pity. I began scouring my contact list for anyone that would offer condolences and maybe buy me something. Nobody bought me a thing and their condolences were mostly half assed. “Maybe they need it more than you do”, “Well at least you have your health”. I don’t care what some crook needs. I need a loaded gun and someone to swab for fingerprints. And to hell with my health. The only thing that’s doing is forcing me to get up every time some geriatric with a gimp foot hobbles on the train. 

One close confidant, and I don’t even know why I bothered with her, offered the emotional support of a brick. Cold, dry, and providing zero consolation, she told me to check the web and see if the thief was trying to flip it. Even though her advice was spiritless and completely void of compassion, I decided to follow it.

I began to search for a cobalt blue, 12-speed, Schwinn bicycle with a hickory brown seat and handlebars that hold your hand right back. This came up empty. Burglars, as it turns out, are not only morally bankrupt but also very limited in their understanding of color theory. If I was going to recover the bike, I was going to have to dullen my intellect and descend into the psyche of the depraved. I searched again, this time using stark and lifeless keywords like “blue” and “bike”. My Schwinn popped up instantly, leaning against a chintzy linoleum. “It has a kickstand” I said between sobs, dragging my fingers across the screen. “It has a kickstand, for the love of god.”

“Is this still available?” I hit the automated request, shrouding myself under the guise of “interested buyer”. Pulling from years of high school theater and a stint of college improv, I went back and forth with a seller of the name Bronze, systematically pulling from him a list of quirks, features, and a surprisingly convincing history of his ownership. “This is no two-bit crook,” I thought. “I am dealing with a criminal mastermind.” Eventually, after a long and delicate negotiation, I had Bronze convinced I was nothing more than a prospective customer thrilled to find a 35 year old bike for $230.

We agreed to meet only an hour later in front of a Whole Foods in Williamsburg, a place completely overrun by the rich, hot, and gay. After gritting my teeth in the mirror and considering the sympathy I’d get with a black eye, I made my way to meet Bronze. 

My initial plan was to draw the crook into a state of complacency by asking highly technical questions such as, “How are the piston rods?” and “What is the GPC (gears per cycle)?”. My final play would be to ask for a test drive and run for it. The problem, however, is that committing swindlage of that degree requires confidence and resilience, two characteristics I’ve never exhibited. So the moment I came face to face with the criminal, I folded. “Hi, nice to meet you, this bike looks great it’s mine you stole it”, and with that I tried grabbing the handles and walking away before he snagged the other side and we both stood frozen. 

In this moment of direct confrontation I discovered a side of myself I never knew. My entire life I had told myself I can’t confront: breaking up, quitting my job, saying hello to my roommates, I avoided them all. But face to face with a thief, a true embodiment of evil, I realized not only can I confront, but I’m a natural. 

I waved my arms and spewed swears while chronicling photos of my bike through the ages. “See the cobalt? Just look at the hickory and tell me that’s not the same hue.” Remembering his elementary understanding of tone, I switched gears. “What do you think my angle is here? To go around trying to convince dregs like you that I’m the rightful owner of whatever hunk of shit they happen to be selling? It’s my bike. And I refuse to find some other mindless activity that I can pretend is a rewarding use of time.” And with that I pulled away, hopped on, and rode into the sunset turning back to say, “Leave thievery to the bandits, Bronzy. There’s a reason your name’s not Gold”. 

I came home and immediately called four people to recount the tale. The next day at work I told myself that I would not share the story until it came up naturally but lasted a total of three minutes before convincing myself that “good morning” was as good a reason as any to get into it.