Pant leg rolled, liner shorts on, helmet snug, two liters of water in my hydration pack and off for my Sunday ride. At this point it should be mentioned that I am of great privilege to have trail heads leading to decent single track just blocks from my one bedroom apartment. Short fire road climbs quickly remove me from the urban environment into decommissioned timber land that is laced with public single track. On my ride through town to the trails I often stop at the local shop, visit with friends or grab a beer at a pub. On this particular Sunday ride while pedaling the bike path leading in the direction of evergreens I felt the familiar buzz of my phone in my pocket. A text invitation to bloody marys at a local bar, content on my two liters of plastic bag water I ignored and pedaled on. Then buzz...buzz...buzzzzz.... I answered to a group of friends hollering urging me to join them at the bar. What the hell, one Sunday bloody mary, a few extra pre-ride carbs why not? Outside the bar I diligently locked my beloved Cannondale into the rats nest of rusty townies at the bike rack and went on in. One bloody mary led to another and another. Me all smiles and good times my helmet and hydration pack dangling from a coat rack and my liner shorts providing added comfort to the already padded stool, my Sunday ride would wait til Monday evening. After a while we decided to move on to another pub to grab some grub and a beer.
We bombed through town me charging off curbs and squaring sidewalk corners while my townie straddling friends were weaving around parked cars and slaloming decorative sidewalk trees. In fact loving the Sunday ride. Arriving at the pub we all diligently locked together our bikes in front of the windows and went in. Cleverly, I put my bike in the middle of the rusty pile at the rack for extra security and joined the festivities. Before the food arrived in the middle of the first pint I went outside with a buddy to watch the afternoon turn to evening.
Upon exiting the front door of the pub we first noticed the lock on the ground, then the absence of my aluminum beauty from the pile of rusty townies. For a moment reality ceased to exist, this could not be real, how, why, who? Then the despair, followed by the anger. My beloved Cannodale was stolen, stolen by some degenerate, some foul despicable creature. They took it not for the appreciation of the custom mods or the miles of ear to ear grins it brought me but instead to satisfy their own selfish desire, for a quick dollar likely only to be smoked or injected. I paid my tab and I walked home hydration pack on, helmet despondently swaying in hand, liner shorts chaffing.
I took the following day off work. I stewed. A rideless week went by. Then I realized despite the sinister circumstances under which my cherished Cannondale left me that I had in fact been liberated. I had been liberated from small rotors, a non tapered head tube, liberated from unnecessary worn out chainrings, I had been liberated from twenty six inch wheels and had been liberated from a bike that could never escape the limits of obsolete compatibility. To the person who stole my bike go f*ck yourself I hope you crash on the pavement. As for me my new 650 b trail bike shreds and I'm ripping my local trails better and faster than ever before even though I still deeply miss my obsolete Cannondale.