You never forget the first time you see evidence that the unimaginable is, well, imaginable.
I ventured into the Cascades on my first outdoor adventure for my newly minted weekly newspaper column way back when.
I met my guide at a crossroads outside Eugene, Oregon. Since I lived some 10 miles off his beaten path, I offered to ride my bike to our rendezvous.
We met at one of those corporate gas stations that has no attendants and always looks deserted.
Off to the side, away from obvious eyes, I triple locked my Jamis Dakar. My Kryptonite u-lock connected the frame to the steel pole, my kryptonite cable weaved in and out of both wheels — the front removed and set against my crank and just for good measure a second cable lock connecting it all to the pole that held up the roof overhang.
When we rolled up some five hours later I blinked and blinked and blinked, unable to speak.
“It appears your bike is gone,” my guide said, stating the obvious in an attempt to snap me out of my stupor.
That’s when I learned that Eugene has more bike thefts per capita than New York City! NEW YORK CITY!!
Oh how I wish our tale ended there. Fast forward a few years and my high school daughter, our oldest, rode my wife’s Marin to Albertson’s for a missing ingredient while baking.
Ah, the innocence of youth. Just running in and out, she didn’t lock the bike. An hour later the store manager treated her to a viewing of a homeless dude riding away from the security camera.
Suffice to say, the whole family went to a new level of bike security awareness, which became ever so important when my youngest daughter matriculated to the University of Oregon.
She spent a month one summer subletting a sweet apartment in one of Eugene’s finer student high-rise housing offerings.
The sleek Trek road bike she bought to train for a triathlon sat in the basement in the locked bike room double locked when she wasn’t riding it. Imagine our collective surprise on moving day when we went down to retrieve the bike to find it gone — again, locks and all.
I desperately hope three’s a charm, or three strikes and you’re out, or simply enough is enough — any cliche will do. But it appears if someone wants your bike, you are helpless in your defense.
This week’s question: How many bikes have you had stolen?
1.5. The complete bike was a Schwinn Collegiate when I went up to the store to get my mom a mother’s day card and pulled the youthful oblivious move like your daughter. That was when I was in elementary school. Thereafter, I never left my bike anyplace unlocked. The “half” a bike was years later, when I’d commute to the VCU academic campus for my weekly photography course. I was riding a very nice Klein that had the fancy painted to match one-piece bar/stem combo. I left it looked up with both a chain and U-lock right out in the open in a busy area. A thief cut the cables loosened the headset nicking the bar/stem and of course the brake levers/grips/shifters. That was decades ago. Ever since I rarely lock up my bike. Instead, it is locked in my storage space, in my sight, double-locked on my car rack or beneath me. If I cannot bring it into an establishment I simply don’t patronize it.
Two.
I forget the order. Lower value one was a $250 list price folding bike from a now-defunct company I used to run called fBIKE. Bike was stolen from the MIT campus. Locked, but not much of a lock.
Second was my first CX bike. I had purchased it used for maybe $800. I loaned it to my son when he lives nearby. It was locked, decent lock, in the entry area of his apartment.
Neither was a great loss, but the sense of violation still has a bit of energy.
There is a particularly toasty sub-basement in hell reserved for people who steal bicycles.