How Is Your Criminality in This City?; The Universe Loves Me

This is a story all about how my life continues to be awesome and why—as a rule—I am convinced of my own invincibility.

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During the summer the key to my chain bike lock broke off inside the mechanism, rendering the lock unusable. However, it still ran through the frame of my bike so out of laziness I continued to use it (by wrapping it around the handlebars in order to appear locked) instead of going through the hassle of removing it and getting a new, less crappy security device. This method worked all well and good until one fateful day.

It was early in the morning. I was waking up for class and Adam was getting ready for work. He poked into my room and asked, "Did you park your bike somewhere else last night?"

Nonplussed, I shook my head.

He sort of sighed, and then said, "Well, it's not there."

Silently hoping he was playing a joke, I sauntered downstairs to the front steps to see for myself. Sure enough, the bike was gone.

Disheartened, but taking it as only I could, I shrugged and then continued on my morning routine. I walked to school that day and continued to do so as necessary.

At one point I got a free bike from Emily's brother and attempted to repair it, but after taking various bits apart and pricing out some components from the local bike shop, I sort of gave up. I rode it 'as is' for a day or two before both tires blew out on my way home, nearly sending me careening into traffic.

At this point, I imagine you're wondering, how does this story illustrate how Luke's life is so great? Well, we're almost there; bear with me.

About six weeks after the incident, I was jogging back home after deriving a bunch of sweet calculus equations on a beautiful summer day and I decided to vary my usual route and run up 15th near Loring Pasta Bar. Suddenly, I saw something familiar out of the corner of my eye. I slowed my gait and turned around, staring at the bike parked and locked in front of me.

Although it was black (not rainbow), the pedals were different (i.e. not broken), the chain looked new, and there was a plastic fender installed, I was sure it was mine. It had the same leopard-spotted seat. Same broken tightener thing by the rear wheel. Same tapeless, scratched up handlebars. In fact, it still had the new tires I had bought only days before it was stolen.

I went inside the Pasta Bar and asked the host if he knew whose bike was outside. He stared at me uncomprehendingly and said, "Bike...? What bike?" I said, "Yeah. The bike. Outside. Do you know who owns it?" He continued to gawk, so I led him outside and pointed at it, proclaiming, "That's my bike." He mumbled something about not knowing anything about it, and went back inside.

At a loss, I called the cops: they said they'd send a car over. I dared to walk across the street to Adam's place of employment (Potbelly's) and wave him outside. He chuckled at my exuberance and scoffed, "Of course."

The police officer arrived shortly thereafter and I explained the situation to him. He asked me if I had filed a police report (no), how I knew it was mine, etc. He pointed out that, essentially, he couldn't do much until the next day (when their mobile unit was available to cut the lock). I wasn't particularly keen about waiting around all day, but, I figured it was a small price to pay. He then suggested (and I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier) to buy a lock of my own and double lock the bike so that even if the thief unlocked their lock, mine would still be there.

Happy happy! I skipped down the sidewalk to the local bike shop to buy a lock. I rambled on about my adventure and they casually mentioned that they had a lock cutter I might be able to use. Joy joy! Less than ten minutes later, I was biking my old new bike home free!

To top the whole thing off, whoever stole it put some work into it; tuning up the brake (yes, just one), swapping out some rusted components, and basically making it ride the best it has ever ridden. Excellent, am I right?

note: due to the fact that there was another flat black painted bike locked in the same place the next day and that the whole interaction with the host of the Pasta Bar was profoundly awkward, I believe he may have been the thief.

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So that's my story folks. I told you it'd all end up for the best!