Not a Good Night

One of my favorite parts about Washington DC so far is that I don’t drive my car. The locals complain insistently about the metro, but it ain’t so bad. It’s certainly better than Philadelphia’s “subway” system. I also love my bike. I’ve had it nearly a decade now, and although I never rode it much in New York, DC has expansive bike lanes and a growing bike culture.

 

Last week I got a tune up, a bike rack for storage, and a little grey bell that says, “Ding.”

 

The other day I bought some really nice panniers. Black, waterproof, and German made bags. Aside from maybe a few lights for safety to allow me to ride at night, the bike is as I want it.

 

Well, was, rather.

 

I went grocery shopping yesterday and filled my new black, waterproof, German made panniers with eggs and wine and mouthwash, and clipped them to my new bike rack on my fast orange and black road bike. I spun my right leg up and over to get on the bike and my left knee gave out. It was as if the lower half of my knee stayed stationary and the upper half spun around and fell off its foundation. It hurt a lot and I fell to the ground in pain.

 

A woman ran over asking if she should call 911.

 

With no health insurance I said, “Absolutely not.”

 

A few others came over and asked if I was ok and I said, "yes."

 

A young woman in her twenties said she falls off her bike sometimes and offered me her frozen peas. All I could think about were those starving kids in Guatemala that I didn’t help.  

 

I called Jacqui who, only a few blocks away, drove the car over to get me. By the time she arrived, my knee felt as though it slid itself back into place. The eggs I bought were probably scrambled.

We put the grocery-filled panniers, and me in the car and locked up the bike.

When we returned an hour later, the bike was gone. I can walk on my leg, and I kick myself now for not just walking the bike back. I knew along with all of my new bike accessories, my bike lock didn’t cut it in an urban environment. I always wanted one of those heavy duty chains that seem to be wrapped in Kevlar.

Fuck.

My bike is gone for now. But it’s orange, and maybe I’ll get lucky and see it. Maybe I’ll say, “Forget about my knee!” And go sprinting after whoever rides by on it. But, paint exists.

I called the DCPD and filed a report. I follow the DC police on Twitter and I feel selfish now thinking I’d see “STOLEN ORANGE BIKE ON THE CORNER OF CONNECTICUT NW AND VAN NESS BE ON THE LOOKOUT,” when really all I see is robberies and stabbings, assaults and murders.

I keep refreshing Craig’s List, hoping to see my bike.

After a job interview today, I walked five miles with a knee brace on, hobbling and mean-mugging every single person, and searching for my bike. I’ve never been so prejudice against all of humanity.

I hope to find my bike.

When I first moved here, I rediscovered my love for urban bike riding. There aren’t many feelings like weaving through traffic at rush hour, knowing that, even against a presidential motorcade, you could beat the president to the White House.

I re-watched half of  the movie Fight Club last night to make me feel better. One of the main takeaways of that movie is that we shouldn’t rely on material things to give us comfort and meaning--to make us complete. And I will still roll my eyes at people who buy the designer items instead of the less renowned generic ones. But this was my bike. It served a purpose. It was helping the environment. It was saving my life.

I haven’t given up looking yet.

And, thankfully, none of our eggs broke in my new panniers. So there's always that.