This morning I went to get my bike out of the [locked] basement to ride to work at the library. When I discovered that my bike was not there. I double checked with my friend Josh, who occasionally drives me home & returns my bike later so I don't ride home too late. Nope, he didn't have it. I ran through every possible place I may have left it locked up. And after crossing each one of them off (while walking to work with a backpack full of books), I realized that my bike was officially stolen. And this is the second bike I've had stolen in Cleveland. The other one was stolen out of the dorms (really?!) my freshman year, but I wasn't too bitter because I had the same bike since 5th grade (although, who would steal a bike that small?). This time, I was bitter.
I loved that bike. I really did. My neighbor gave it to me, and it was vintage and exactly my style. It was teal, and I had been debating painting it yellow all summer, so I could finally have my yellow bicycle (like Yellow Bicycle Films, my "company"). But it looked beautiful either way. The brakes squeaked really loud, but I thought it was endearing. I loved it. It got me where I needed to go when I didn't want to buy a bus pass (which gets expensive) or walk (because good walking shoes that aren't hideous and don't get holes in them are also expensive).
I think I just found my life calling to make PSA's about bicycle theft.