Sad Day

*Note: This post might contain profanity. But after you read it, you'd hardly be able to blame me.

I had a few things I wanted to post about - funny stories I wanted to share, observations I wanted to make, big words I wanted to use. But today's events required an entry.

Today was a very typical Chicago late summer day. 95 degrees, 100% humidity, 100% miserable. I ran errands all over the city, buying wedding gifts, shower gifts, groceries and other non-interesting stuff. As I returned home an hour later and drove into my building's garage (which requires a key pass to enter and exit), I pulled into my parking spot and noticed something was wrong.

My bike, which had been locked up (as many bikes in the garage are) on a cable that runs along the garage wall, was gone.

My beautiful, 8-month old, $700 bike that I have been using to get all around the city was gone. My mother's first question was "are you sure you didn't leave it somewhere?" like I was talking about a pair of earrings, not a mode of transportation. Every person I talked to today about the theft asked me if it had been locked up. Yes, it was. Whoever stole it was a professional - they broke the lock and took it with them.

I'm waiting to see the official building security camera tape to see if the people who stole it were on camera. Obviously, I know nothing can really come of it, but it might at least be interesting to see if I can actually view the theft.

What really gets me about this is that my bike and I were finally getting used to each other. Like any relationship, we had our ups and downs. For the last two months, my legs have been covered with what I affectionately call "bike bites" - bruises, cuts and scrapes from where I've had run-ins with the pedals, chain, wheels - you name it, I've injured myself on it. I figured my bike had heard me repeatedly say I can't stand Lance Armstrong (I'm sorry, I know you're supposed to like him, but I don't, and that's a post for another time) or knew that I had no idea how to fill its tires and took it out on me.

But over the past few weeks, we were settling into a routine of long rides down the lakefront, and limited injuries. I braved street riding, and my bike held its own with the early morning cyclers going 100 mph. I began to look forward to spending time with my bike. It was like we had gone to couples counseling, and were now reaping the rewards. As I dealt with the reality that the bike was gone (nothing like reporting a bike stolen to your insurance company, condo building and police - awesome), I started to get surprisingly emotional. This could have something to do with the fact that I've gotten six hours of sleep in two days and feel run ragged by my responsibilities as of late, but it was more that I was really upset someone had done this to me. I began to feel like Pee Wee Herman in Pee Wee's Big Adventure - I started seeing people happily riding their bikes all around me, and wanted to go on a cross-country trip to find my little pal.

Later as I was putting away laundry, I went to fold a pair of capri pants and noticed that the bottom of them were shredded. Like a sappy romantic movie, I suddenly saw a montage in my head to the Sarah Mclachlan song "I Will Remember You" of the day I rode through a major intersection and made it halfway through said intersection before noticing that my capris had gotten caught in the bike chain. In a split second survival decision, I ripped my capris from the chain Incredible Hulk style, and went the rest of the ride and a personal training session with one leg of my pants looking like I'd been shipwrecked with the Black Pearl. I'm not going to lie to you, I got a little teary eyed remembering my time with my bike.

So, to my little friend, wherever you are: I enjoyed the little time we had together. I was looking forward to the triathlon with you, and I thought we had potentially many more years to come together. Tonight I had this mental image of you in a pawn shop somewhere, your little night light flashing and your lock broken off, wondering if I had left you there. If this were a Disney movie, you'd undoubtedly go on an Incredible Journey-esque trip to find me. But, alas, I doubt we'll get to meet again. I hope you do get sold to someone who appreciates you and takes care of your squeaky rear brake.

And to the person who took my new friend: thanks. You, sir, are an asshat of the first degree. I curse the day you were born and I hope someone steals your bike someday. And maybe your pants. And then runs you over with the bike while wearing your pants. Yeah, I don't think that makes much sense either, but it makes me feel better.