Come Back, Little Sheeba, Come Back

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Originally uploaded by shermans.

In my mind I've been drafting a rather fascinating blog entry about urban transit and the complicated caculus that leads one to choose the bus and bike over a car and lot. This post, brilliant in its insight and perception, took into account ASU's parking crunch, the meager yet blissfully cooperative bus routes in the valley, and the ongoing construction of Phoenix's new light rail system. This post, omnivorous yet relevant, also detailed the drastic and catastrophic results of the metro area's rapid and expansive growth, and courageously compared this to the older, pre-world war II midwest and east coast cities like Chicago, Boston and Cincinnati. This post, delicious yet rigorous, finally linked the rising tide of obesity, our culture's preoccupation with pornography, fast cars, loose tax systems, and the haughty and arrogant disregard for nature to the saving grace of mass transit, bike paths, and the dense, pedestrian oriented developments designed by Duany, Plater-Zybek, and van der Ryn.

Instead, my bike was stolen.

I loved that bike. My brother-in-law, who also loved that bike, gave it to me three years ago when he bought a new one. I probably never would have spent the money on such a machine, but I rode it all summer when I lived in Omaha. I even biked the 25 miles to work a few times. When I moved to Scottsdale, I rode it almost every saturday. Putting in 40 plus miles through the desert foothills and along the canals. I had just started to bring it to campus on the bus, and then ride it to Ciela's daycare, where I'd strap it onto the back of the car and drive all three of us home. I had planned to ride it in the Tour de Tuscon in November, and I had hoped to ride it in my first triathalon.

The person that stole it probably saw only the fact that it was a road bike and believed it to be worth a lot of money. It wasn't. When it was new, it would have been a good steal. Now, it was over a decade old, I think, needed new gears and new tires, and was quite a bit scratched up from me learning how to unlock my shoes before I tipped over. I hope it ruined the guy's day when he heard the price the pawnshop offered him. I hope it sat for days on eBay without a bid. I hope he crashed on the way home, was hit by a car, and wet his pants on the way to the hospital.

That's the bike in the picture. And that is the top of the string of hills I would ride to get to Dana College in Nebraska. As I was leaving Omaha, I quoted a song that says water was the closest thing to wings. I disagreed, arguing that being on a bike was as close to flying as we could get. Now, I'm grounded, sad, and my ankles hurt from running. And now, everything moves so much slower.