My bike isn't a fancy one, or at least not anymore. It's a battered Trek 820, covered with a slick patina of dust and city grime and covered in weathered, peeling stickers that extol the merits of long-defunct punk bands. Its seat is as unwelcoming to the buttocks as an unrelenting granite headstone and swaddled with an oily, ripped bandana. It's suffered innumerable spills in its day and no longer exudes a sheen of glossy newness, which is just as I like it (although I really should get a new seat). All the same, I don't lock it out on the street. In fact, when you see me riding it, you'll notice I don't bring a lock with me. Why not? Well, because I'd never assume a lock would keep it safe on the streets of New York City. I ride it out, I ride it around, then I ride it home. It stays with me. I stay with it. Case closed.
Clearly, however, not everyone is as anal/neurotic/jaded/paranoid as I am. Witness this tragic tale of woe (courtesy of eagle-eyed EV Grieve), wherein the suddenly-former owner of a presumably gleaming chrome Bianchi Pista writes an earnest plea to the enigmatic "punk/hippie girls" who purportedly bought his stolen bike (or stole it themselves) from its perch on Bond Street. I wonder what steps he'd taken to secure the bike in the first place. In any case, here's hoping someone does the right thing and restores this guy's faith in humanity. But ever since reading this story, I haven't been able to get this song out of my head.
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Heartache on Bond Street
My bike isn't a fancy one, or at least not anymore. It's a battered Trek 820, covered with a slick patina of dust and city grime and covered in weathered, peeling stickers that extol the merits of long-defunct punk bands. Its seat is as unwelcoming to the buttocks as an unrelenting granite headstone and swaddled with an oily, ripped bandana. It's suffered innumerable spills in its day and no longer exudes a sheen of glossy newness, which is just as I like it (although I really should get a new seat). All the same, I don't lock it out on the street. In fact, when you see me riding it, you'll notice I don't bring a lock with me. Why not? Well, because I'd never assume a lock would keep it safe on the streets of New York City. I ride it out, I ride it around, then I ride it home. It stays with me. I stay with it. Case closed.
Clearly, however, not everyone is as anal/neurotic/jaded/paranoid as I am. Witness this tragic tale of woe (courtesy of eagle-eyed EV Grieve), wherein the suddenly-former owner of a presumably gleaming chrome Bianchi Pista writes an earnest plea to the enigmatic "punk/hippie girls" who purportedly bought his stolen bike (or stole it themselves) from its perch on Bond Street. I wonder what steps he'd taken to secure the bike in the first place. In any case, here's hoping someone does the right thing and restores this guy's faith in humanity. But ever since reading this story, I haven't been able to get this song out of my head.
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