I have an ex who saw her world in sets of three. Three friends, three beers, three scratch tickets, yadda. Any time something significant happened, she would intone that she was watching for the second of the set. As often as not, number two never came. But if number two did come, then she was on countdown for the third. And in my view, some of the connections she drew between events seemed, well, contrived. And while I was never critical, I did ask her on occasion if she thought maybe the association was maybe more her making sense of the world than shadowy forces keeping the universe in balance.
She insisted that all she was doing was identifying actual patterns in life.
Several years ago, bike thieves (may their eyes be bathed in bear spray) broke into my garage and made off with two bikes and a frameset. Three items. I was bummed, but I did not see any sort of divine pattern. Then, about 18 months ago bike thieves once again broke into my garage (which had supposedly been fortified by management) and made off with two more bikes. A week later, as I was working on my claim with my insurance company, the re-reinforced door was jimmied yet again and they made off with my prized Seven Airheart. Now it was starting to get personal, and, oh, lookie, that’s another set of three.
No, I did not conclude that mysterious agents from another realm conspired to Robin Hood my bikes to the homeless in a wave of social justice.
Ten days ago, as I was about to make the left turn onto my street, while sitting motionless on my bike in the left turn lane, a blinking light zapping the air red in the fading afternoon light, a driver in a Toyota Sienna drove up behind me and attempted to stop at the location I already occupied.
The impact thrust my DiNucci and hips forward in a surprise relocation. It took a second for my head to catch up, attached as it was to the whip of my spine.
Se pleaded that she didn’t see me. Of course.
One week later, thieves used a ladder to reach my balcony and steal two mountain bikes. They left the ladder behind. COB, amiright?
I still refuse to see my inability to ride three bikes I was able to ride a mere three weeks ago as any sort of otherworldly intervention. Nor was it some sort of mystical hint about my relationship with the bicycle.
For the first time in my life I find myself anxious about riding on the road. Says the guy who no longer has mountain bikes. And no, I still don’t see that as some sort of memo from God. It would be funny, you know, if it were funny.
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