Someone stole my bicycle, and that’s really mean. It was a brand new bike that was found at my favorite neighborhood shop called Hillcrest Junk Company. It still had the spiky things coming out of the tires. I paid $30 for it and felt like God gave it to me as a special gift.
When spring comes I will be sad about my bike—again. I probably won’t spend the money on another one. I only took the time to ride it twice.
I know it’s not murder or having a gun put in my face or physical harm coming to me or something extremely traumatic. It was simply a bicycle. But it was my bicycle. And now I’m sad.
I wish now that I had put it on my car’s bike rack, taken it down to the River Trail more often. There were some sunny afternoons when its shiny blue paint called out to me, but I did not listen.
No fond memories of time spent together, wind in my hair; I am left, instead, with incredible bicycle regret.