Since I have been back at school, I have endured three separate and isolated incidents involving my bicycle. As of today, I have come to a sad conclusion the world doesn’t want me to own a bike. I am unsure as to why. Does the universe know how much I love my bike that it feels the need to teach me a lesson and take it away?
Back in September, an intellectual locked their bike up to mine. By intellectual, I mean dumb ass. This is where my problems began. I had to cut off a wire connected to my breaks and walk my baby over to the shop to get it fixed. Fortunately, it was a quick and cheap fiasco. Little did I know the grief this bike would cause me.
In October, that beautiful bike I had waited months for was stolen out of my parking garage. I learned one thing on that day.
Trust no one.
Just kidding, I already had trust issues. I surprisingly handled the situation calmly. My parents will attest to it. My mom continuously told me how proud she was that I didn’t have a melt down. To be honest, I was patting myself on the back for it as well. I filed a police report and left it up to fate
Well, fate hates me because the bike is still no where to be found.
Stolen bicycles here at Charleston is a separate issue in it and of itself, but I won't touch on that right now.
After coming to terms with the loss of my bike, I decided to buy myself a new one and boy was I proud. I was ready to take the streets by storm. The first one I had was a professional cycle. My dad used to make bicycle parts, and he had credit at a store. Cue the army green, low handle, speed racer bike. It's safe to say I felt like a true badass.
But this new yellow bike...with brown wheels, seats and purple accents...my god I was in heaven. I thought I was so cute riding around in my new cruiser. Screw the old bike; I’ve got myself a new one that was perfect for me.
My friends and family laugh about how much I love my cruiser, it's an apparent obsession that I have.
Living on a major street with a long driveway my entire life, I was never allowed to bike from place to place. It wasn’t safe, and I was too young. The fact that a bike can get me somewhere so quickly when my little legs take forever to take me places was a miracle. No more breaking a sweat while walking to class, I get to feel the wonderful breeze as I peddle away.
Well, not anymore!!!!!
Tuesday, January 17th was supposed to be a good day.
I usually get coffee before class. Unfortunately, the line was out the door, so I had to settle for the water bottle I had in my book bag. Now, if anyone knows me understands that class without coffee is the equivalent of me without sleep. If my last article gave you any indication, I have an addiction to naps.
You can understand my anguish when I opted to head to class without my iced caramel latte. So, the morning started off with a bump, but I knew it was going to look up.
My second class was canceled, and I figured I’d grab a coffee after class. "Whatever, Sydney," I thought. "I can roll with the punches."
Through the ally between Jimmy Johns and Jacks Cafe, I go, and I see my poor dead baby treated with such immense inconsideration.
Cue *Hands flying above head* “Oh. my. god.”
My bike was run over.
Flipped upside down, clearly rammed into by a truck
A girl came up to me “Are you okay? Do you need anything? I wish I could help, that is so horrible.”
I wonder what I looked like from an outsiders perspective.
I call my mom as tears are beginning to form.
Don’t cry, it’s just a bike. Remember how proud she was when you handled the other situation.
Tears start coming.
“Well, at least you weren’t on it,” she said.
“If I were on it, it wouldn't have gotten hit!”
(I apparently have too much faith in my biking abilities, considering I don’t have an athletic bone in my body)
A Jimmy Johns’ employee rushes out; he can tell I am extremely distraught. He tells me that there is a camera right above and public safety can help me. I thank him for his kindness, flip over my bike, lock it back up and clench my fists. Off I go, huffing and puffing, and the only thought that raced through my mind was “I could get there much faster if I were on my bike, God Dammit.”
Long story short about my time at public safety, I am now friends with the Sergeant. We plan to find the culprit; it is only a matter of time. Hide yo kids, hide yo wife, I’m coming to raise hell.
In a city where there are so many students, residents and tourists biking, you would think there would be better precautions put in place. I plan to get rich off of a bike safety initiative; you heard it here first.
Moral of the story: The world doesn’t want me to own a bike.
My sunshine is currently in an induced coma, sleeping quite uncomfortably in my trunk, anxiously awaiting surgery—that will be paid for by the animal that carelessly broke my bike in the first place.
Maybe I'm being trained to dislike my bike because the future has something more dangerous in store (God forbid).
Like me actually getting hit by a car, my Mother's worst fear.
But until that day comes, I’ll be riding off into the sunset.
Well, as soon as I get it repaired.