The triumphant return of Ichiro! Replaced a tube, aired up tires, and dusted off the seat. Took him to the City Market where Paul helped Alana and I make bee's wax candles. Yes, it was a children's activity, but we all enjoyed the tactile start to the day.
Later I road with Pat and his Uncle up to Broadripple Brew Pub. Uncle Mark, who was in town from Naples, FL, is a cyclist who aligns quite well with my own cycling beliefs and philosophies.
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| Making bee's wax candles. Photo by Paul Humes. |
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| Indianapolis, IN January 24th 2015 |
Then nameless, the whip served me well throughout my remaining three years in Muncie carrying me through countless commutes, 2 Hilly Hundreds, and a 90+ mile trek from Muncie to FW just for fun.
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| Muncie, IN March, 2013 |
Once I moved to Indy in May 2013 I was pedal obsessed. At
this point I had procured Tom as a graduation present to myself, but was still
iffy on fixed gear riding and preferred the familiar comfort of the 1984
baby blue Fuji. It was in his saddle
that I first explored the city and its offerings.
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| Cranksgiving, Indianapolis, IN. November 2013 |
On May 31st, 2014, I drove out to Bob’s with the intent
of buying a MTB. Bob, a craiglist
vender, had a garage full of bikes similar to the Main St. barn. I rode a number of bikes and settled on an
all-black Specialized 29er hard tail.
Bruce. I was packed to leave town
for the night so instead of heading home and chaining the new to the old in my
building’s basement, I mounted the behemoth and headed North to show off my new
ride. This turned out to be a great
decision because when I returned home that Sunday the Fuji was gone and the
lock dangled broken from the eyelet stay.
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| Self-documentation of cycle chained in basement. |
As the weather was getting warmer the building’s exterior doors
swelled and didn’t always latch shut.
Someone had let themselves in and simply broke the inadequate and aged
lock, presumably with their hands.
I did due diligence, making neighbors aware and informing my
landlord who then put in a camera system.
I filed a police report and posted a $100 reward along with descriptions
and photos online. These efforts were
all for not. However, it wasn’t long
before friends and co-workers started reporting seeing my bike on Delaware and
Mass Ave.
I had a voicemail from Courtney who thought she saw it heading
North on Delaware. Kurt sent me a text
when he passed it on Mass Ave. Both were
familiar enough with the bike and reported the same middle-aged black man
pushing the pedals which helped corroborate their sitings. One night, Kayla and I both spotted him
separately. She was running errands and
I was riding pedicabs. We both gave
chase, called the cops, etc. to no avail.
The police were especially not helpful telling me “we can’t really do
anything unless you’re there with him.”
“So I should confront him before calling?” I asked.
“Well, we don’t really want you to do that either,” dispatch
responded.
Thanks for precisely nothing IMPD.
Paul and Misty followed him on separate occasions back to 19th
Street. Paul was in an auto and only
caught a glimpse, while Misty pursued him from Mass Ave on her bike.
Hers is my favorite story as she was the bravest of friends. The perp stopped around 19th and
Bellefontaine and she approached him posing as a Michigan transplant looking
for housing options.
“I don’t think you’d want to live in this hood,” he told her.
Very quickly she revealed herself.
“Actually, a friend had his bike stolen recently and I believe yours is
what was taken.”
He told her he bought the bike off a homeless guy wrote down his
name and number on an old receipt.
I now had a name. Jay. The number, not surprisingly, was not
answered.
“This number has a voice mailbox that has not been set up
yet. Goodbye.”
Misty felt foolish for not taking further action, but I was
grateful for her courage and tenacity.
She, like many of my better friends, believe first that people are good
and honest. Who knows, she may even be
right.
While all of these sitings, phone calls, and chases gave me hope,
it wasn’t until after work on July 15th that I tracked Jay
down. I took my newly purchased 2002
Bianchi up Mass Ave and spotted him almost immediately. Our confrontation was heated and first but
quickly cooled off. Jay told me he paid
$50 for the bike and just wanted his money back. Knowing the bike was rightfully mine, I
hesitated to call the less-than-helpful police and instead decided to give him
the money. We road together to the bank
as I had no cash on me. He crossed paths
with a friend he chastised him for being out of contact. He explained he dropped his phone in a puddle
and it had been out of commission.
Perhaps this explained why there was no answer when I called.
Jay asked if we could ride up to 19th St. so he
wouldn’t have to walk and I trusted him enough to oblige. He started opening up to me explaining that
he recently went through a divorce and asked that I call him John. Jay is his “street name”.
I had people over that night to watch the MLB All-Star game, but
baseball took a backseat to the repeated telling of the story. As each friend arrived, the story was retold
with more and more detail and enthusiasm.
Typically, I am one to embellish and elaborate far beyond what is factual
for the purpose of entertainment. But
this story needs no exaggeration. I am
still undecided if Jay stole my bike or bought it off someone, but one thing’s
for sure, John did not steal my bike.
John is a gentle, friendly, and amiable guy who was glad to return my
bike.
“I can tell I made your day,” he said as we waited in line at the
bank.
I was grinning like an idiot, and he was right.
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| Burning bee's wax. |
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