I didn’t blink an eye lid. My heart didn’t miss a beat. No expression on my face. This was the moment when I discovered that my bike had been stolen! I simply turned the corner and went on my way, by foot.
This is the seventh or eighth bike I’ve had stolen, I’ve lost count. I’m immune to being upset or expressing any feelings normally associated to being robbed. Bike robberies are a natural phenomenon in Barcelona. I’m just a just another victim.
As I walk to my destinations, I reminisced about all my previous bikes. My first bike was a present. A yellow dual mountain/city bike. I still recall the childlike happiness when I received the bike. It was 11.30pm, and I couldn’t wait to test it out. I bombed down the Gran Via and then all the way to my friend’s house. I pounded the buzzer from street level, and hysterically called my out to my friend to come down and see my bike. I was like a kid with the best present ever and wanted to share my happiness with my friend. We rode in the plaza in front of the Macba museum, taking turns on the bike, riding with wide smiles on our faces. It was pure bliss.
The yellow bike lasted eight months, before the chain to which it was locked up with was cut and the bike stolen. I had reacted violently to having my first bike nicked. I reported the theft at the local police station. They laughed at me, and advised me not to buy brand new bikes as they would be stolen in matter of minutes. Defiant that I will not contribute to the racketeering market of stolen bikes, I continued buying new bikes. Usually the best I could afford at the time.
By the time I was onto my fourth bike, I decided to invest in a Monty micro fold away bike which fitted nicely in the lift of my building. I never let the bike out of my sight. It slept in my flat and not in the street. As fate would have it, my apartment was robbed, and my beloved micro red stolen. You just can’t win.
Convinced that I was jinked or that I’m not destined to own the same bike longer than a year. I resisted buying a new bike. However, after some three months, impracticality of not having a bike persuaded me to invest in another one.
I bought my most expensive ever bike costing 650€ and a guaranteed thief proof lock of 65€. It lasted 10 minutes!
So the story of stolen bikes goes on.
After discovering my latest bike had been stolen today, I walked to my three destinations, all within some 2.5km from my home. First stop, my bank. I told the cashier that my bike had been stolen.
Second stop, the concierge of my lawyer’s office to pick up some documents. I didn’t tell the concierge about my bike, only because I knew she was a miserable old bag and didn’t want to share my sorrow with her.
The third stop was at the notary office to complete the sale of my apartment. To my horror, I couldn’t help but tell the buyer, bank manager and notary that my bike had been stolen that very morning. The statement slipped out of my mouth,without warning. I think they were all so stunned that such an insignificant piece of information was broadcasted at such a serious proceeding.
After signing of documents had finished, I walked away, lit up a ciggie. Instead of celebrating the sale of my apartment, which I had fought hard for over the past eight months, I actually thought about how nice it would have been to get on my bike and bomb down the streets, with a big smile of my face. It hit home then that my blue bike was gone and how much I was going to miss her. I snail paced home in the baking sun. Boohoo.
This is the seventh or eighth bike I’ve had stolen, I’ve lost count. I’m immune to being upset or expressing any feelings normally associated to being robbed. Bike robberies are a natural phenomenon in Barcelona. I’m just a just another victim.
As I walk to my destinations, I reminisced about all my previous bikes. My first bike was a present. A yellow dual mountain/city bike. I still recall the childlike happiness when I received the bike. It was 11.30pm, and I couldn’t wait to test it out. I bombed down the Gran Via and then all the way to my friend’s house. I pounded the buzzer from street level, and hysterically called my out to my friend to come down and see my bike. I was like a kid with the best present ever and wanted to share my happiness with my friend. We rode in the plaza in front of the Macba museum, taking turns on the bike, riding with wide smiles on our faces. It was pure bliss.
The yellow bike lasted eight months, before the chain to which it was locked up with was cut and the bike stolen. I had reacted violently to having my first bike nicked. I reported the theft at the local police station. They laughed at me, and advised me not to buy brand new bikes as they would be stolen in matter of minutes. Defiant that I will not contribute to the racketeering market of stolen bikes, I continued buying new bikes. Usually the best I could afford at the time.
By the time I was onto my fourth bike, I decided to invest in a Monty micro fold away bike which fitted nicely in the lift of my building. I never let the bike out of my sight. It slept in my flat and not in the street. As fate would have it, my apartment was robbed, and my beloved micro red stolen. You just can’t win.
Convinced that I was jinked or that I’m not destined to own the same bike longer than a year. I resisted buying a new bike. However, after some three months, impracticality of not having a bike persuaded me to invest in another one.
I bought my most expensive ever bike costing 650€ and a guaranteed thief proof lock of 65€. It lasted 10 minutes!
So the story of stolen bikes goes on.
After discovering my latest bike had been stolen today, I walked to my three destinations, all within some 2.5km from my home. First stop, my bank. I told the cashier that my bike had been stolen.
Second stop, the concierge of my lawyer’s office to pick up some documents. I didn’t tell the concierge about my bike, only because I knew she was a miserable old bag and didn’t want to share my sorrow with her.
The third stop was at the notary office to complete the sale of my apartment. To my horror, I couldn’t help but tell the buyer, bank manager and notary that my bike had been stolen that very morning. The statement slipped out of my mouth,without warning. I think they were all so stunned that such an insignificant piece of information was broadcasted at such a serious proceeding.
After signing of documents had finished, I walked away, lit up a ciggie. Instead of celebrating the sale of my apartment, which I had fought hard for over the past eight months, I actually thought about how nice it would have been to get on my bike and bomb down the streets, with a big smile of my face. It hit home then that my blue bike was gone and how much I was going to miss her. I snail paced home in the baking sun. Boohoo.
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