Use It or Lose It
A short story about my lost bicycle
I don’t know when it exactly happened, but it was sometime during the last month. Parked in the basement of my apartment building, it was covered in so many layers of dust you would think it was a generation old and irredeemable.
The first time I saw, it was postured behind the front glass of the store, like a girl lounging on the beach. Bright red in color with black stripes and white sporty stickers, I thought it was a beauty to reckon with. The cycle was a geared one, had the look of an athletic machine, ready for twists, turns, and bumps on the terrain.
“City Bike that can ride a rough one”, was advertised. “We need to get this”, I said. My wife and I quickly made plans. We will get one more for her later and go riding together on the beautiful serene roads of the state highway nearby, with trees that offered continuous canopy cover on our way to the hills. And when we have kids, we’ll go around riding in a herd.
I cycled to run errands. To go to the bank. To buy groceries. To buy cigarettes. When the wife was sick, I skidded the cycle out in a rush to procure medicines from the pharmacy. On weekends, I took it for longer rides, with a couple of neighbors joining me on the jaunt. Riding was a personal experience though, just like running. I was always lost in my thoughts during rides, about the past, the present, the glimpses of happiness.
On uphill roads, the thoughts returned to the terrain, the difficulty of pulling off the task of vigorous pedaling. I need to improve my fitness.
On flat roads, the thoughts fleeted back to my happy existence. Respectable job, stable marriage, good health, friendships.
Uphill.
God, why hasn’t anyone invented an easier way to cycle uphill?
Flat.
It was worth the effort, the reward is sweeter.
Up. Flat. Up. Flat.
When our first kid was born, the car was deemed a better fit. “Of course it’s not safe to take a newborn on a cycle!”, she had exclaimed.
We moved house soon after. Then again. And again. The cycle trudged along, just like my mark sheets from school, receipts, and other papers we no longer had any conceivable use for. It was always parked next to my car, I saw it occasionally when I stepped out until one day it was completely forgotten and left to itself. I patted it occasionally, sat on it, but never rode. Weeks passed. Months. Years.
And then one fine morning, it was missing. One’s cycle does not get “lost”, it gets stolen. There was a deep tug in the heart. How could anyone steal it! If whoever took it had only asked for it, I would have given it with all my heart. A rare act of benevolence in a world filled with imbecile greed!
I reported the case to the apartment security. The guy accepted with a facetious smirk.
For the next few weeks, every time I passed by my parking spot, I would hope for the shiny red metal to magically resurface. Mirages. I walked by all the other parking spots in the basement searching for my red and black.
Could that be the one? Looks red, with black stripes…
Nope. It’s a kids cycle, completely black.
Is it that one hidden behind that car? Whoever took it thinks I’m an idiot, that I wouldn’t find it here.
Nope, not that one either.
Longing, such impossible longing that I never knew I would find in me.
And then on an unassuming day before Christmas, after parking the car upon returning from work, I found it in standing cross-legged on my parking spot — the sparkling bright red beauty. It looked like it had a spa day — scrub, facial, makeup, hair wash. Like a new bride.
Along with it, a note attached.
It was difficult, perverse, and a bit amusing to see your longing. With your hopeful everyday searches, the suspicious glances at the other cycles, the twitch in your eyebrows while at it, the ache was written on your face. I decided to restore it to you.
Why I took it, I will never be able to fully answer. Maybe it was the pain I felt on seeing a beautiful possession left to rot. Of letting a spirit die. Maybe it was the desire to rekindle its spirit. To restore it to its potential.
What Tyler Durden did for a boy’s life behind a store, pointing a gun at him. You will never again be careless about what is close to you.
And for this, you must give me credit. And for this, I will not apologize. We are even.
It was difficult to gather fury at this marvelous, condescending scoundrel.
I took the note, put it in my pocket, then hugged my bright red girl, lifted it, and carried it home.
