(Photo by Denis Doyle/Getty Images Europe)
There’s been a mess of sorrow amongst some of the FT troops this past month. Some of our most trusted steads have gone missing. Hoodwinked from right under our noses.
It had been 16 yrs since my last bike was stolen. I’d ridden home from the bar in some form of altered state during yet another Montana snowfall. My bike– a 1940-something Hiawatha with big sweeping chrome bars, a plush springy brown saddle, and an aging set of white walls– was left unlocked, leaning against the building right beneath my bedroom window. I should have just stuck a blinking neon sign in the yard that read “TAKE ME.”
As if simply stealing my bike and riding off wasn’t enough, the thief had the audacity to ride a few big loops in our side yard, leaving proof of his new found joy before taking off down the alley. I never did find it, although I like to imagine he was hit by a bus at some point as he rode away. Although chances are he too was on his way home from the bars, in an altered state and cold. My bike was just a quick way to get back home for him.
Sixteen years pass, I live in a “big city” now. He came back for me, using the big snips on a steel latch guarding my stash of toys in a garage, right in broad daylight this time. Gone was a glorious two-niner with a custom crowned G2 REBA, car-boney-you-name-its, a totem to 7 months of sometimes brutal suffering, and a bike fit that would accommodate only a handful of people (Wilt Chamberlain, maybe Andre). But it could have been worse, much worse. It was one of five rigs that were resting in my man dean that day, but it was the only one with pedals, air in the tires, or a chain on it. I have a knack for running out of time on bike projects. None of the other bikes were locked up, they were simply not as convenient to ride off with. Thieves are lazy, that’s why they steal other people’s stuff to begin with.
I learned a lot from this last emotional assault. I learned, once again, what it feels like to be f*#ked over by a bike theif. But, more importantly, I also learned one more time just how underprepared I am for such moments. Yes, I did have renters insurance. But when you make a claim, you have to be able to prove you owned what it was you lost. There in lies the rub. I have been beyond fortunate to have been part of a regional appendage of the Subaru / Gary Fisher team. That meant I have been given incredible bikes for a number of race seasons now.
But this gift translates into the fact that, like many of you, I have absolutely no proof I ever owned these beauties. Maybe you got them from a sponsor or bought your bike from a guy on Craigslist, or you threw down the big bills at a LBS and never kept your receipts. And like me, you have probably never written down the serial numbers to your bikes (if yours has one).
What I did have, though, was pictures. I’m not one for photographs of myself, always found it strange to collect such things. But a friend had sent me some from a race in which I was riding the bike in question. That was all I needed at the end of the day. A picture of me on my bike, doing what I love to do. Riding.
He’ll be back I’m sure, rumor is he just gave fellow FT comrade Cole Maness a visit.
