I arrived home from a very relaxing vacation. I unpacked, unwound and took Chloe out for a poop. I wasn’t really looking but I could have sworn upon returning to the arms of my very comfy bed that my bike wasn’t locked up against the fence where I had left it. Too lazy to get up and look over the balcony, I let it be, hoping that by realizing something wasn’t quite right, the angels upstairs would find away to make my bike reappear and I’d be none the wiser.

This morning after about the fourth cup of coffee I remembered that I had forgotten to look for my bike. I sprinted to the balcony’s edge and there is was – I could see the remains of my lock; hanging desperately from the fence. I ran to the elevator and down the drive to find a clean cut – my bike was gone. Inside me a burning anger raged like none I’ve felt in years – those fuckers stole my bike. What’s worse is that it wasn’t even my bike, it was my mom’s bike – an old royal blue Supercycle with an rather deformed gel seat.

It’s not so much that the bike was really worth any money, but that it was a symbol of my freedom – my ‘wheels’ that could take me away, let the wind blow through my hair, take a rotten mood and soften it as the rays of sunlight dance across my face.

I will miss the old girl, she served me well in her days, but what erks me even more is that she is probably spending her days locked up on the sidewalk of some dumpy ol’ pawn shop on king street, wheels locked and kick-stand down, instead of being ridden and enjoyed.