The Bike Saga Continues

Oddly enough, I have been receiving a lot of feedback concerning my bike posts, so I thought I would update this blog to reflect the completion of that particular phase of my life.

Because apparently, it was doomed from the beginning. Because the bike got stolen.

Yes, that's right. I said stolen.

One day, I left my apartment--anticipating my transportation to campus that day on the shiny, royal blue beauty. The bike wasn't there. I turned around and walked back into my apartment. "(Name Censored)," I said to my roommate. "Did I leave my bike on campus?" She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named told me about how she saw some people who didn't look like they were from "around here" (apparently they were wearing wifebeaters) the day before riding off on a blue bike. It was pretty clear to me that it was my bike. I mean, my apartment complex is not large. There is only one bike rack, after all.

Now, the first question you may ask yourself is probably, "Was the bike was locked up?" I submit that it was not. I had not locked it up, thinking that I would use it very soon again and that it would be more time-efficient to not lock it up. I think I was just feeling lazy. I also didn't think there was any danger. After all, my complex is small, as I said, and the bike rack is in the parking lot area for the complex.

I called the police belatedly (under the duress of my mother) to file a report. The conversation with the dispatcher was a little something like this:

Me: I want to report a stolen bike.
Dispatcher: Ok, where do you live and what's your phone number?
Me: (content censored)
Dispatcher: We're busy, but we'll see what we can do.


Later that evening, I received a voice mail that went something like this:
Dispatcher: The police are at your apartment, but they don't know which one you live in. Please call back at (content censored).

Called back. Supplied requested information. Then went running. Then went to bed. (It was a bit around 11 PM.)

I was in that Dream Land that you get to that's not quite sleep, when your thoughts are weird, but you're semi-conscious, when my roommate (a different one, whose name is also censored) knocked on my door and told me the police were waiting for me outside the door.

They seemed a bit amused when they realized how little information I had about the bike. The conversation went a little something like this:

Policeman: I don't really want to fill out a report of a theft at an "unknown" time, by "unknown" suspects, of an "unknown" bike.

He has a point there.

MORALS OF THIS STORY:
1. Laziness does not pay.
2. The Provo Police probably do little else besides looking for lost bikes.
3. Although wifebeaters is a horrifically stereotypic term to describe A-shirt tank tops, it is somewhat fitting, in this circumstance.