Mine, lost, redemption

One night several years back, I went to Luigi Ortega’s across the street from PCC.  At that time it was a favorite hangout for its cheap beer specials and alligator tacos.  That night, I locked my bike out front, and had a good old time.  I forgot about my bike, and got a ride home, only to remember my error when we got there.  I got a ride back, but my bike had been stolen.  I couldn’t say if it happened while I was there or not, but in any case my bike which had gone with me to Burning Man several times, and had been with me through pounds of weight loss and countless miles of transit was gone; her seat beneath another’s ass.

A couple weeks later, I was house/car/cat-sitting for my girl Corey, and while driving past PCC I saw what looked like someone riding my bike.  It should be noted that since losing the bike, every red bike I saw *had* to be my bike, of course, until I noticed some detail that obviously precluded it from being mine.  This time, however, the bike was indeed mine.  The rack in the back, mismatched tires, and red/white design were unmistakable.

I drove around the block, and was lucky enough to find that whoever had the bike had stopped and locked the bike to a tree in front of PCC, likely so they could go to the Flea Market.  I got to the bike, and called the cops, then I called my mom who lived a block away to be there as backup, just in case (backup = call 911 if I’m beating someone’s ass).

The guy returned to the bike before the cops got there.  He couldn’t speak very good English, but through his broken English, my broken Spanish, and him forgetting that he’s pretending not to speak English that he’d “bought the bike from a black guy late one night.”  I could have cared less, and even offered the guy the $20 he paid for it, which he declined.

I don’t know anyone that was able to recover their stolen bike, and certainly not on their own like that.  Fortune was shining on me, that’s for sure.

Clitoris.