I imagined the thief riding victoriously into the night, a speedy white haze in the shadows.
Last Fall, while I was enjoying a beautiful walk at the peak of the leaves changing colour, the amazing and impossible happened. I saw the thief of my stolen bicycle riding it slowly up a hill in a neighbourhood adjacent to my own. I could not believe my eyes – my bike had found its way home!
I had dreamt of this moment more than once. In my secret daydreams, I would catch the rider of my stolen bicycle, mid-stream, and propel them to the ground. I would liberate my bicycle, challenging the bike thief to ‘do something about it, I dare you!’ My bravery in my private musings was unmatched. And now, here I was, about to make my daydreams come true! Or was I?
My bike had been stolen from inside my garage a few months earlier. It was a shiny, white-with-silver-trim Specialized touring bike, well-built and so stylish that I felt like I was riding in the French countryside whenever I took it out for a spin.
But let’s back up for a second. The bike was my mom’s, really. I told her once how much I loved it, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I would not be able to stop her from giving it to me. When I finally relented, we agreed the beautiful, white-with-silver-trim Specialized touring model would be stored in my garage until my mom felt like taking it for a ride. (She assured me she was not in the habit of bike riding and likely would not).
Regardless, that gorgeous bike was stolen in the small hours of the early morning after I had failed to close the garage door the night before. I imagined the thief riding victoriously into the night, a speedy white haze in the shadows.
The theft was my fault, really. At least, I had created the conditions for it. Not only had I failed to close the garage door, but I had left the garage light on. For a would-be-thief, this was an invitation.
So, I take 90% of the responsibility. I give the remaining 10% to the thief. I say ‘thief’ and not ‘thieves’ because two other bikes were left sitting in the garage, untouched.
Part of me secretly wondered what made the white-with-silver-trim Specialized touring model so attractive. Had my thief been a fan of the French countryside as well? Or perhaps this crime had been a crime of opportunity, and the Specialized was simply the closest to the door. I was a little offended, to be honest, that my 1991 red and white candy-striped Fiori racer, an Italian beauty gifted to me in high school and in excellent condition, had been shunned for the less exotic, Specialized touring model. My husband’s stealthy silver Kona Lanai mountain bike was no slouch, either. Why had the stealthy Kona and the Fiori racer been spared?
So many questions – but as I say these words, I realize I sound like an absolute asshole. Look at me, rhyming off all the beautiful bicycles in my garage. Maybe I needed one of these bikes to be stolen. Maybe I needed to feel the pang of loss to know how lucky I have it. After all, I rode my mom’s bike as a luxury because I loved the way it made me feel (even as I write these words, I feel a little sorry for myself over the loss).
When I told my mom about the fate of her bike, I could see her empathy for my situation. She was genuinely sad for me – and it was her bike! After brushing off the notion that I would buy her a new one, she said, ‘No, it’s fine. It’s gone. The bike went to someone who needed it. They needed it more than we do.’
I sat with this idea for a long time.
Let’s face it – this was an extra bike. I am not one to advocate thievery, but after talking to my mom, part of me wondered if a poetic restoration of balance in our desperately skewed socio-political economic order was at play here. I had an extra bike, and someone else needed a bike.
So, when I saw my suspected bike thief in the flesh on that beautiful autumn day, I was surprised by the amount of anger and resentment I still had in me. Clearly, my animal self did not subscribe to the social democratic principles in my mother’s wisdom. I scrutinized the alleged assailant riding my bicycle.
She had her head down. Her pace was slow, and her uphill battle was both figurative and literal. The clothes she wore were baggy and torn and dirty, and her hair was long and stringy and appeared unwashed. She was inordinately thin. I might have second-guessed myself, but something about her general air told me this bike ride was not emblematic of a solitary bad day. This bike ride was rife with a long list of tragedies I had no way of knowing.
All of which made me stop – because, as you know, I had dreamt of this moment. I stopped because immediately after I felt those feelings of anger and resentment, I suddenly felt sad.
I felt sad about how little my suspected bike thief appeared to have and how much I had. This was not pity and it was not guilt. I did not feel sorry for my bike thief. Looking at her, what I felt was more logical. I looked at my bike thief, and I felt a great sadness that some people enjoy such a great bike surplus while other people have no bike at all.
Let’s face it. Not only do I have enough bikes, but I also have a parent willing to give me an extra one, which amounts to plenty more than I need. I believe this is known as generational wealth. The fact that I was raised by this parent, along with another parent, both of whom loved me and supported me and love me and support me to this day, compounds the inequity. I have a surplus of bikes, and because of my upbringing, I have the capacity to engage in our capitalist mode of production to create even more wealth and buy even more bikes if I want to.
On top of all this, my traumas are minor and manageable. I have a brain whose operation I control – whose function is unencumbered by addiction or depression or psychosis. I have a body that functions with no major difficulties. My physical appearance does not fall into a category that would target me for hatred (unless you count ‘female’ – but we are a pretty large contingent and anyway, I have experience enough to know how to handle that one). Come to think of it, I should be standing in solidarity with my suspected bike thief. Why would I knock her off my bike, like I had in my dreams, if we were meant to fight the good fight together?
What do I care about a bike she might need more than I do, anyway? Right about now, you might be thinking I am rationalizing – that I am simply a coward. You might be thinking if I were more courageous, I would simply take my bike back. I must be making excuses.
On the contrary, my friend. I know exactly how brave I am. I think it’s only when you know this that you can choose to let some matters go.
Regardless, bravery is not heaving a person who is clearly down-on-their-luck off a bike they may or may not have stolen. This suspected bike thief, in this particular case, did not make me fearful – so I had no need to be brave. No, I was not fearful – I was unsettled and upset. Seeing her made me unsettled and upset about our world and what we’ve done to it. I was unsettled and upset that people need to steal a bike just so they can have one.
No one should have to steal bikes or steal anything. If stealing is going on, the system is probably 90% to blame. We are creating the conditions for it. Look at us, luxuriating in our riches, leaving the garage light on and the garage door wide open. Bike thieves and worse will cheat the desperately skewed system until we fix it.
Listen. No one is stopping the hard-working and the lucky and the generationally wealthy from enjoying life. Let them buy all the bikes they want…as long as everyone else gets one, too. So what if the wealthy pay more in tax and our nation is less ‘competitive’ internationally and the so-called economy shrinks? Is that so bad? So we use fewer resources and take care of the environment and ourselves and each other a little better. Sounds like paradise to me. If the low crime rate in countries driven by capitalist economies with strong social democratic principles is any indicator, people are far less likely to commit crimes if we stop hoarding all the bikes. We stave off a very Clockwork Orange future, if you ask me, if we spread the wealth around a little bit.
As for my stolen Specialized touring model – white-with-silver-trim – what was its fate? As I watched my suspected bike thief ride past, I looked a little closer. Alas! It was not even my bike at all. After all that, it was not even my bike at all. But in the end, was it ever mine, really? 