Was it Daunte Culpepper who said there were seven levels of hell? Who ever coined that phrase if they knew what they were talking about would surely find a place for some jerk who was cruising around Lincoln and Alton on Miami Beach last Monday night. It was a nice night so instead of driving or walking to the movie we rode our bikes. We saw the flick and when we came out a couple hours later someone got themselves damned to an afterlife of being frozen in feces.
My bicycle was locked firmly in place, but something was amiss with my love interest’s bike. It wasn’t there. Well, it kind of was. The frame and the tires were still secured by lock to the lamppost, but her seat and basket were gone. Now I could understand someone in dire straits stealing a bike. Maybe you need to run from the law for a crime you did not commit or perhaps your life is an Italian movie and you need a bicycle for a job that will support your starving post-war family. But what are you going to do with a bicycle seat? How much crack rock can you possibly trade for it? It’s not like you can put it in your living room to use when you have guests over.
And what are you going to do with a bicycle basket? Take it with you when you go grocery shopping? We’re lucky we didn’t put all our eggs into it.
We toyed with the idea of riding back seatless, but I’d never been too adventurous with protruding objects going anywhere near my buttocks. And so we walked our bikes back the ten or so blocks to her apartment in utter defeat. The police have no leads in who the culprit might be, so I’ve been checking Craig’s List to see if anyone is selling a bicycle seat and basket.