I have absolutely no sympathy for bike thieves, unless (depending on my mood) they are tragic figures in Italian cinema, so when I heard (quite late in the day, since I’ve not been online much) that Jackie’s bike was stolen, I was livid. But what to do? Not a whole lot. A tweet or too, but that’s about it. It’s ridiculous. I guess scanning Kijiji and Craigslist to see if they try to sell it (it is pretty distinctive/prettied up with awesome orange fenders and a Brooks saddle) might help, but maybe not.
Her building’s version of bike parking is covered, with racks (not very good ones), but not fully secure. The bike was locked Sheldon-style. There is no sign of the lock anywhere. It makes no sense. It’s more mysterious than mine getting stolen out of my (unlocked) garage three years ago.
I feel lucky every day that my workplace has space to lock up my bike inside. I am so wary of leaving it out for very long, and with the news that SOMEONE CAN BEAT A TINY U-LOCK LIKE THIS, I’m even more terrified. (We have bike racks outside of work, as of last week, but given the daily Meth Convention that happens across the street, I’m not keen on using them.)
Anyway, yes, What the fuck. Taking a bike is like taking a tool and money and loved one from a stranger all at once. Lowest of the fucking low.
Jackie is probably tougher than I am and, luckily, has an adorable back-up, so she managed to do her 50km charity ride today, the day her more long-ride friendly bike was stolen, on a folding bicycle. Because she is awesome. And not helpless.
Seriously, though, if I have Toronto readers, please do this.