I once had a really, really nice Fuji bike. It was clean, light as a feather, stripped down to one front elliptical gear. Simple elegance. Very expensive. Perfect for a sweet ride on flat urban terrain. Day-Glo green. Sealed bearings, titanium, carbon fiber. Strong, almost zero maintenance. I loved it. Cherished it. If it was human, I would have married it.
I used it in my daily commute to my job at the St. Petersburg, Florida Health Department. The bike rack, used by both clients and employees, was just left of the front doors. Bolted to the wall just above the rack, there was a nice, re-assuring metal sign that read, ”This Area Under Video Surveillance.”
One day after work, I went out the front door to find my beautiful Fuji gone. Gone. The heavy cable lock had been Freoned and snapped in broad daylight during the height of business hours right there in front of one of the busiest doorways in downtown St. Petersburg. I didn’t even know you could do that.
After an initial moment of panic and loss, I went straight back inside to the security office which was just inside the front doors—just on the other side of the wall from the bike rack. I told them about my missing bike and asked that they review the tape to see who the son of a bitch was that stole my bike. My plan was to get a still of the guy—his face, if possible—and go to every department inside the building and ask if he was being seen there. We’d have a complete file on the dumb bastard. I’d get his ID, then address, then cops, then the return of my bike. No problem.
So these fucking minimum wage rent-a-cops tell me that they can’t help me. I ask why not. They say that there is no camera actually pointed at the bike rack, that the camera is pointed away from the rack toward the north corner of the building instead. I couldn’t believe these guys. I asked them what good that did them in solving thefts. They didn’t give a shit. They had no control over the placement of the cameras they said. I wanted to kill. I remember thinking that if I did my job like these slobs, there would be dead people all over Pinellas County. I went to my boss. He shrugged his shoulders. Sorry, not his department. I called the cops. They said they couldn’t help me. Suggested I go down to the park and look for it and if I found it, give them a call.
And that was that. Now, no matter what bike I own, no matter what the price I pay, no matter how beautiful its appointments, I paint the frame and all possible components flat, matte black. No brightwork. Nothing shiny and purdy for some lame son of a bitch to be attracted to. All my bikes look like B-2 bombers.
God, I can’t believe I’m still pissed off over this.