It happened last Monday. I stepped out of the house and my bike was gone. My companion and almost exclusive means of transportation in daily life. My carriage to bring home full bags of groceries and the pedals I spent eight hours on each week. My Svarta Faran was taken from me. Stolen. For the second time.
Some people who I hope will have extremely bad karma for the rest of their lives had hijacked my bike. For them, it’s just something they can sell. For me, it resulted a serious emotional response that A had to appease during more than what might be considerably more than the average time for grieving your bike loss.
It’s not just the meanness of taking something else’s bike, and the money, and the difficulty to get around without a bike, it’s also the tremendous annoyance of having to go buy a new one. I spent two evenings after work going through bikes stores experiencing the amazement of bad German customer service and then A and I dedicted an entire Saturday to going around the city trying to find a bike that could replace Svarta Faran. (Really, nothing will be able to replace that one, of course.)
It is not advisable to be tall, I can tell you, because apparently bikes are intended to be for women around 165 cm. Another problem was that I had what A calls “conflicting goals”: I wanted a nice-looking bike that also was good and did not cost 1,000 euros. I finally decided for one and it is nice looking and did not cost 1,000 euros. I am not yet sure whether it’s good. The mechanic who handed it to me cheerfully said, “Stolen bike? Happens all the time! No use getting upset. Just don’t get attached!” Why, thank you very much.