One Unsolved Crime

On my 10th birthday my parents gave me a bicycle. It was the best birthday present ever. I remember the excitement -- something akin to Sally Field crying on the academy awards show, "You love me, you really, really love me".

I did have a little niggle about it though. The bike was for grown-ups. My father even had to put blocks on the pedals so my short legs could reach. I had already experienced "optics" issues when my mother made me wear a pink snow suit -- not so good for a little boy. I think she got a deal on it or something.

But my father was right. I outgrew the need for the blocks.

I REALLY loved that bicycle.

Indeed, the size paid off. My friends had those kid-bikes with “suicide bars” so they could play motorcycle. Not me. I had the coolest, fastest machine in the neighbourhood. Sure, I attached baseball cards on my spokes with clothes pins so my bike would SOUND like a motorcycle – but otherwise mine was practically the real thing.

I now know another reason – maybe the main reason – that I loved the bike so much; it was my escape pod. At the first sign of tension in my household, off I would go, cutting through the wind as fast as my blue dart could fly. And on sad days I would journey farther than I was allowed.

One day, when I was 16, I rode my bike to the variety store to buy cigarettes for my mother. When I came out of the store the bike was gone.

I absolutely could not believe it. I obsessed about it for months. Sure, I ultimately got a replacement bike, but it wasn’t the same. I had lost a friend.

I always kept my eye out for my blue bike.

I am 55 years old now. Believe it or not, the subroutine in my brain is still there: if I even get a glimpse of a sky blue 26-incher, my head tilts, my eyes squint, and my thoughts race to the salient question: is THAT my bike?