Regular blog readers may remember months ago when I reported that my pink bike was stolen, presumed gone forever.
Not so, friends. I saw a bike that looked suspiciously like Pinky locked up on the street, and when I checked the serial number (by lying on the sidewalk and sticking my head under her pedals, to the bemusement of all who passed me) against my sales slip—A MATCH.
Of course I called the cops. But they said there was nothing they could do because I'd never filled out a police report (I didn't want to bother them, they have murderers to arrest, hello)! And they wouldn't let me fill one out then and there, because I'd “already recovered” my property—it doesn't count as stolen anymore if you're actually touching it.
So I was like, “How have I recovered my property if my property is chained to a pole with a lock I don't have the key to?”
To which the nice officer replied, “Bolt cutters.”
So I went to Ace Hardware.
You can guess what happened next.
Whatever, it's MY bike. Nobody's gonna steal my bike and get away with it. Pinky is a GOOD BIKE. I know I have the money to buy a new pink bike (and did so). But that bike wasn't Pinky.
And now she's back. She seemed to have had a rough time while she was gone (foam handle guards in shred, pedals broken, handlebars covered in rust), but I am working on restoring her to her former beauty.
Then Pinky and I will ride again.
So there you go. A story with a 99% happy ending (the 1% is for the person who locked my bike to that pole, who may not even be the person who stole her, and may have legitimately bought her from the person who did. But too bad, that is what happens when you buy stolen goods. And mess with Pinky).