One That Didn't Get Away
by Andy Dickson
You know you've had your
bike nicked when you find yourself looking for it in the kitchen cupboards.
For about a minute I managed to keep the certainty at bay with this madness.
Psychologists call it denial.
Running out of small spaces to look in, I returned to the car (the bike had
been locked inside) to double check the glove compartment and ashtray. It was
then I saw the broken glass and realised for certain that I was A Victim Of
Crime.
The irony of launching a new mountain bike magazine* and
getting your bike stolen before issue one hits the streets is something I can
now laugh at. Actually I can't, I just make a grunting noise and force the sides
of my mouth up.
Ten days later I saw my bike as I drove past a kid's playground a mile from
my house. I thought my stomach was going to come out of my mouth. Usually, you've
got more chance of finding Haley's Comet in your underpants than seeing your
stolen bike again.
I decided to call the boys in blue. Then I parked up, grabbed Frank, a two-year-old
son I keep handy when I feel the urge to visit children's playgrounds, and casually
sprinted in to double-check.
My first fleeting glance was confirmed. Let's face it, it's an idiosyncratic
blend of high-priced kit on a carbon fibre hardtail. You don't get bikes like
that 'down the swings' where full-suspension rules.
Plod turned up and confronted the toe rag. Sorry, suspect. He'd bought my bike
for £200 at a car boot sale two weeks before I'd reported it missing. Sadly,
I know a thing or two about 'boots' and you can pretty much buy every single
thing and still have change from £100. And I've never seen a bike for sale at
one that didn't previously reside in a skip.
The bastard, sorry, accused, nearly got me though, because I didn't know my
frame number. Never mind the fact I could practically describe its molecular
structure, he still damn near walked out of the park with my bike because I
didn't record a string of digits. Fortunately, I wore the police down. After
20 minutes of stand-off my detailed description of the number and colour of
my inner tube patches and thorough knowledge of Shimano serial numbers swung
the argument my way. That and his 'previous'.
Into the wagon went the slimeball. Sorry, society's victim. I got the bike back
later that week.
Ten weeks and lots of riding later -- when I've completely forgotten the affair
-- they want me in court to testify. To my surprise, they're taking bike theft
seriously.
Up in front of the magistrates Mr Car Boot has no legal representation. This
is the first time I've had a chance to hear him speak and he's definitely a
chip short on his logic board.
Like I said, I've completely forgotten the affair. Life has returned to normal,
rage has subsided and it seems a shame to bang a man up since the stolen property
has been returned to its owner. Anyway, he escapes a custodial sentence, but
gets a £500 fine. Probably have to steal a couple of bikes to pay for it, though.
© Andy Dickson
Maximum Mountain Bike, vol. 1, no. 4