I’m not soft pedaling

Have you ever felt the sense of heart-sinking panic when something goes missing? “It was just here.” “I swear I set it down a second ago.” “There’s no way it just walked off without me, right!?”

Like the time my bike was stolen.

I spent the better part of Sunday sitting on my couch, browsing the internet, drinking cup-after-cup of coffee while my two cats napped next to me. It was a very regular July day, overcast (duh) until early afternoon. When the grey blanket of morning fog broke into thousands of little white cloud puffs and blue sky poked through, I peeled myself from the couch, put pants on, and hopped on my bike to go downtown.

I took a short ride to my office, probably to pick up a phone charger, or more likely to liberate a few snacks and Kleenex boxes from the supply room. As I approached my office block, I weaved through clumps of Giants fans walking to the afternoon game. They meandered, bottlenecking the sidewalks and crosswalks that I usually zip through with ease.

I dislike crowds. I detest waiting in lines. I hate wasted time. Simply put, I enjoy the freedom of travelling my way, light and fast and by my own will.

My little maroon bike is my freedom machine! It’s my main mode of transportation. It gets me everywhere. It’s a mix of new parts, found parts, and my-friend-helped-me-put-that-together parts. There’s no other bike quite like it, and I can spot it from a mile away.

I still remember the smell of the garage and the man from whom I bought it — both a little musty. He sold it to me with no seat, no chain, shifters installed upside down and handlebars that had likely been forged during the industrial revolution. It was a dusty old frame that needed some care. It was love at first sight. Two years later, I have built it up to be my most prized possession. I appreciate its flat-sided, upright handlebars that allow it to stand straight and tall when I lean it against walls. The white saddle glows with indigo rubbings when I wear my favorite blue jeans too many days in a row. When I’m away, I miss my bike. I crave the thigh-burn and sweaty climb up San Francisco’s steep hills. I wish for the tousled, wind-blown hair that hits a perfect quaff after two or three short downhill glides. I watch my bike, like a doting boyfriend, from the window of dive bars I frequent — elated to find my tiny chariot intact and waiting to fly home with me at the end of the night. Paramount to all of its mix-and-match parts, I absolutely adore the sweet, rose-gold bell that sits atop the left handlebar. I pull its tiny trigger again-and-again to politely scream at drivers who get in my way. Two pretty little dings punctuated by a sincere “On your left,” give me space to grace past slower riders. I give the bell one solid strike to coyly punctuate my flirtatious jokes when riding to Bernal Hill with my favorite beau — head tilt, wink and a toothy grin, “BING!”

I’ve never been materialistic, but I love my bike.

As I dismounted in front of the double doors of 2 Bryant Street, I rifled through my bag to dig out my keys. I work in a large, open, news-room-style office. It’s big enough that no one would hear you mumbling through your grocery list, but small enough that you can’t ignore Dave’s incessant throat clearing. Ugh, do you need a cough drop, Dave?

Once inside, I tucked my bike in its usual spot, the front wheel nestled in a 3-slot rack at the front of the office. I pulled my phone out and strolled to my desk — head down, probably Instagramming — all the way to the very back of the office.

Maybe you see where this is going. I did not.

I daydreamed of conversations that happened the night before. I pieced together which songs I played on the juke box at Phone Booth, the gin and tonics, the chilly ride down Valencia Street, and the end-of-the-night chat with my favorite doorman at Casanova. I heard a little creak and a rattle—the noise the office front door makes when it opens, real slow. Like any door I’ve opened 387 times, I instantly recognized its distinct sound. I paused. The rattle stopped. Maybe I imagined it.

I tripped back to into my daydreams. But the sound cleared a few cobwebs from my brain. The rattle was distracting. I fiddled with the post-its on my desk — trash, trash, keep, trash. I stuffed a half-used Kleenex box in my backpack. Maybe one of my coworkers just came in and would walk around the corner any minute? I shuffled toward the candy jars that line the back wall near our kitchen. I reached for a handful of mini York Peppermint Patties, devouring three (ok, eight) within a matter of seconds.

Some time had passed — five minutes? I’m not sure — but all of a sudden I couldn’t get that rattle out of my head. I leisured toward the front of the office, expecting to find someone, a colleague, or no one. I’m not sure what I expected.

My bike was missing.

I glanced around as if it had tip-toed away on its own. Was my two-wheeled sidekick pulling a prank by hiding behind the front desk? Did it sidle into the doorway of a nearby conference room? Had it vanished?

It was gone. GONE.

SHIT. WHERE IS MY BIKE!?

I felt stranded. My heart started palpitating; it would have burst through my chest if it hadn’t already embedded deep in my stomach. Helplessness, fear and rage took over. I was all feelings and adrenaline. I was all animal.

I ran to my desk: phone, keys, wallet. I sprinted down the office aisle. What usually takes 100 paces took five long strides.

Fuck. I feel so violated. Is anything safe!?

I ran, flew out of the building. I stood on the sidewalk, feet firmly planted, knees slightly bent: ready stance. Each moment felt like 5 minutes.

It had been so long since I heard the door rattle. That fucking rattle. Anyone with two legs and a brain could be five miles away by now. I scanned both sides of the sidewalk. I would fight a bear if that’s what had taken my bike.

I noticed to the right, in a crowd of idling Giants fans, a large figure awkwardly riding a small bike. With each pedal push, his knees bounced high up over the handlebars. The bike looked like a child’s underneath his tall, beefy frame. He looked like an idiot, a clown. I was not laughing.

Without thinking I ran to him, slowing my pace as I got closer; this bear of a buffoon was caged-in by slowpoke Giants fans. I leaned my head to one side, discerning the bright maroon paint of my frame and the faded, scratched Miyata branding on the side.

“THAT’S MY BIKE!” I screamed.

I am not a screamer. “THAT’S MY BIKE! GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE!” I’m quiet and polite, to a fault. “YOU FUCKING STOLE MY BIKE! GET OFF MY BIKE! GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE!”

The man turned is head, nonplussed. He blinked, “Uh, I… uh. I just bought it for fiddy bucks from a guy over there.”

“THAT’S MY BIKE! GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE” My arms flailed as if they had no bones. My eyes were wide and unrelenting. I moved toward him. I was within spitting distance of his face, as close as my short stature could get. I felt like I was on drugs: hot and crazed. The crowd faded. All I could see was this beast on my bike.

The next two minutes happened in slow motion. The man looked around. His shifty eyes noticed the crowd’s stares. He stuttered and repeated, “Uh, nah. But I uuhh I just got it from….” I don’t even know if he formed a complete sentence. I wasn’t listening.

My hands had a mind of their own. Reaching past his massive forearms I felt the familiar cold metal of my handlebars at my fingertips. I flung one of his heavy, limp hands off my bike. I grabbed its frame tight. My grip was hulk-like — super human.

The man set both feet down on the ground. He stood up, straddling my bike, towering over me. I felt one-third his size. I pulled. Gave my bike a tug. Drew it closer to my body. And somehow I had control. I have no idea if he stepped over the frame or what. Heck, he was giant; I could have slid my bike through his legs like a soft summer breeze blows through tall grass. I pulled harder and he didn’t resist. My bike eased toward me. I think I just started walking away.

In an instant I had my bike. I started rolling it. I got my bike back.

I didn’t look at that man again. That fucker. I don’t care how he felt, what he thought, what he did next. I clutched my bike so tightly; my hands gave the handlebars firm little hugs. The old black wheels rolled quiet and easy by my side. It was the best moment, the best feeling. I got it.

I walked away from the crowd, still jittery from the adrenaline. I heard a clap. Then I heard a few more. It took me eight paces to figure out I had an audience rooting for me. I could barely hear their murmurs through the hot pulses of adrenaline in my ears. But when one woman said “Yea girl! THIS GIRL!” I put my fist in the air and gave a little double pump.

I heard that. I felt so proud, so content. So relieved.

I might never take my hands off my bike again.

Back in the office I sat on the couch. I melted into the oversized plush cushions. I stayed there for 40 minutes, just staring and shaking. I was a puddle, but I didn’t care. There was one thing that mattered.

I got my bike back.