A story about bicycles.
I know that this post isn't really technically "news" about the site, but I didn't know where else to put this, the bloggiest post of The MW Blog as of yet, so it's going here. Deal with it.
So, I've been living here in the grimy urban environment of Prince George's County, Maryland for the past two-and-a-half months to get a master's degree in journalism. It's going reasonably well, thanks for asking.
Anyway, I decided before I moved here that the best way to get to class and to other places nearby my lavish efficiency (read: very small studio with $700-a-month rent) apartment was to ride a bike, especially considering that it cost something like 250 bucks to get a parking pass at the University that would more or less only allow me to park in a lot that's just as far away from the journalism building as my apartment. So I brought my old bike up here with me to use as my main mode of transportation.
A few words about the bike itself: it was a green, cheap 12-speed that I got back when I was, like, 13 or something. Amazingly, it still rode pretty smoothly and the chain actually worked pretty well once I put some oil on it. The most important thing, though, was that the bike had the most comfortable seat I've ever known to be on a bicycle -- my brother put it on there when he used it for exercise back when he lived in Wilmington. It was like riding on a recliner seat or a firmly toned, but still soft and luscious woman's ass. It was beautiful. Wonderful. A dream.
A beautiful, wonderful dream of a seat.
So, of course, about after eight weeks of living here, my bike got stolen. From right out in front of my apartment. I had locked it up on the bike rack outside with the lock I had bought with my dad at some skeezy dollar store. And yeah, it was a crappy lock, but I figured that anybody willing to make the effort to cut through a cable lock would go to a little more trouble to chop through a slightly thicker lock to get a bike that was actually worth something. But I was wrong, obviously.
I walked outside at about 5 o'clock one afternoon to find my bike gone, with the lock laying on the ground right by the bike rack, taunting me. "Here's what I think of your lock," the thief seemed to be saying to me symbolically, as he rode away on my plush, woman's-ass-like seat. I picked up the mangled lock and walked down to the main office of my apartment complex to tell them that my bike had been stolen on their watch, just to let them know that they were letting crime run wild in the streets. They told me to call the police.
I didn't really think that would help, but I did it anyway. After reporting my stolen bike to about 6 different people over the phone and waiting for about half an hour, a couple of officers, both women, showed up, looking like they really didn't want to be there. They started asking me questions:
COP: Did you see who took the bike?
MW: No. If I saw them, I think they probably would have stopped stealing it. Or I would have chased them.
COP: What did the bike look like?
MW: It was green, 12-speed, had a nice seat.
COP: Brand?
MW: I dunno, Free Spirit, I think. It was a cheap old bike.
COP: What was its value?
MW: I dunno, 60 bucks.
COP: Anything else of value on it?
MW: The seat.
COP: How much would you say the seat was worth?
MW: I dunno, 60 bucks.
COP: What was bike's the serial number?
MW: I don't know. Am I supposed to?
COP: (angrily) Yes! How could you not know that? I can't put it on a stolen items registry without a serial number!
(COP angrily gives me her card, both cops go toward their car)
OTHER COP: Get a better lock next time.
And then they left. Needless to say, they didn't go on a citywide search for my stolen bicycle. They should have, though. They didn't know about that seat. The only time I heard from them again was a week later when they called to see if I had the serial number, since apparently I should have had reams of documents with it printed on them. Seriously, do people document their bike's serial number? Is this a common practice? I barely even knew they had them before this.
After the cops left, I started walking around, looking to see if the bike thief had maybe ditched the bike after being too enthralled with the orgasmic wonder of my dreamy seat. I didn't find it, but I did come upon something suspicious: what I think may have been a bicycle chop shop. There's a little maintenance building out next to the road behind my building. In front of it, I found some bicycle wheels, a couple of bike frames and some old bikes with missing parts. Inside the chain-link fence next to the building were even more bikes. As I stood there looking at all this evidence, two guys quickly drove up to the building in a van, looking at me hard. I hoofed it out of there. A couple days later, I went back and saw a bike that looked exactly like mine, except it was an 18-speed. Suspicious, no?
Anyway, to wrap things up, I bought a new bike a week later. It looks like a candy apple and the seat is hard like a hip bone, but it does the job, I guess. At least it has better brakes than my last bike -- I went flying off the thing the first day I got it when I tried to stop it at the bottom of a hill. I landed hard on the sidewalk, but my elbow took all the impact.
So, in the end, I've ended up with a scraped elbow, a sore backside and the card of a cop that obviously doesn't care for me. And perhaps a pair of bicycle choppers after me.
Damn you, bicycle thief. I hope you choke on that beautiful, luscious seat. If that's somehow possible.
So, I've been living here in the grimy urban environment of Prince George's County, Maryland for the past two-and-a-half months to get a master's degree in journalism. It's going reasonably well, thanks for asking.
Anyway, I decided before I moved here that the best way to get to class and to other places nearby my lavish efficiency (read: very small studio with $700-a-month rent) apartment was to ride a bike, especially considering that it cost something like 250 bucks to get a parking pass at the University that would more or less only allow me to park in a lot that's just as far away from the journalism building as my apartment. So I brought my old bike up here with me to use as my main mode of transportation.
A few words about the bike itself: it was a green, cheap 12-speed that I got back when I was, like, 13 or something. Amazingly, it still rode pretty smoothly and the chain actually worked pretty well once I put some oil on it. The most important thing, though, was that the bike had the most comfortable seat I've ever known to be on a bicycle -- my brother put it on there when he used it for exercise back when he lived in Wilmington. It was like riding on a recliner seat or a firmly toned, but still soft and luscious woman's ass. It was beautiful. Wonderful. A dream.
A beautiful, wonderful dream of a seat.
So, of course, about after eight weeks of living here, my bike got stolen. From right out in front of my apartment. I had locked it up on the bike rack outside with the lock I had bought with my dad at some skeezy dollar store. And yeah, it was a crappy lock, but I figured that anybody willing to make the effort to cut through a cable lock would go to a little more trouble to chop through a slightly thicker lock to get a bike that was actually worth something. But I was wrong, obviously.
I walked outside at about 5 o'clock one afternoon to find my bike gone, with the lock laying on the ground right by the bike rack, taunting me. "Here's what I think of your lock," the thief seemed to be saying to me symbolically, as he rode away on my plush, woman's-ass-like seat. I picked up the mangled lock and walked down to the main office of my apartment complex to tell them that my bike had been stolen on their watch, just to let them know that they were letting crime run wild in the streets. They told me to call the police.
I didn't really think that would help, but I did it anyway. After reporting my stolen bike to about 6 different people over the phone and waiting for about half an hour, a couple of officers, both women, showed up, looking like they really didn't want to be there. They started asking me questions:
COP: Did you see who took the bike?
MW: No. If I saw them, I think they probably would have stopped stealing it. Or I would have chased them.
COP: What did the bike look like?
MW: It was green, 12-speed, had a nice seat.
COP: Brand?
MW: I dunno, Free Spirit, I think. It was a cheap old bike.
COP: What was its value?
MW: I dunno, 60 bucks.
COP: Anything else of value on it?
MW: The seat.
COP: How much would you say the seat was worth?
MW: I dunno, 60 bucks.
COP: What was bike's the serial number?
MW: I don't know. Am I supposed to?
COP: (angrily) Yes! How could you not know that? I can't put it on a stolen items registry without a serial number!
(COP angrily gives me her card, both cops go toward their car)
OTHER COP: Get a better lock next time.
And then they left. Needless to say, they didn't go on a citywide search for my stolen bicycle. They should have, though. They didn't know about that seat. The only time I heard from them again was a week later when they called to see if I had the serial number, since apparently I should have had reams of documents with it printed on them. Seriously, do people document their bike's serial number? Is this a common practice? I barely even knew they had them before this.
After the cops left, I started walking around, looking to see if the bike thief had maybe ditched the bike after being too enthralled with the orgasmic wonder of my dreamy seat. I didn't find it, but I did come upon something suspicious: what I think may have been a bicycle chop shop. There's a little maintenance building out next to the road behind my building. In front of it, I found some bicycle wheels, a couple of bike frames and some old bikes with missing parts. Inside the chain-link fence next to the building were even more bikes. As I stood there looking at all this evidence, two guys quickly drove up to the building in a van, looking at me hard. I hoofed it out of there. A couple days later, I went back and saw a bike that looked exactly like mine, except it was an 18-speed. Suspicious, no?
Anyway, to wrap things up, I bought a new bike a week later. It looks like a candy apple and the seat is hard like a hip bone, but it does the job, I guess. At least it has better brakes than my last bike -- I went flying off the thing the first day I got it when I tried to stop it at the bottom of a hill. I landed hard on the sidewalk, but my elbow took all the impact.
So, in the end, I've ended up with a scraped elbow, a sore backside and the card of a cop that obviously doesn't care for me. And perhaps a pair of bicycle choppers after me.
Damn you, bicycle thief. I hope you choke on that beautiful, luscious seat. If that's somehow possible.
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