My bike was stolen the first day of class. Searching for some sense of closure and peace of mind, I reported it stolen to the campus police and asked the officer what will most likely happen to my bike beyond this point. Without the faintest of hesitation, he warmly said, “It will probably be sold for drugs.”
Now, I’m not an idiot. I knew very well that I would never see this bike again when I called the cops. But seriously, drugs? I first pictured the culprit as a freshman ne’er-do-well who was late to his first English class and just so happened to be harboring a jujitsu blade disguised as a Swiss Army knife in his pocket — those things can cut through steel like butter. If this scenario were true, I could at least have some dignity left knowing a Boy Scout drop-out was being resourceful when prying open my cheap cable lock like a rusty can of sardines. Dignity, however, falls a little short on the self-esteem scale when drugs get involved.
Stealing bikes is an activity that doesn’t usually come to mind when planning a major drug purchase. Every substance has its notable trades — prostitution will buy you crack, recycling bottles will help fund your crystal meth addiction, and if you’re a sensible American earning an honest man’s wage, weed is your likely purchase. My only question is, where do bikes fit into this equation? Unless you enjoy getting high off the brake dust of my once-sweet ride, I have a hard time pinpointing your drug crutch.
Perhaps my culprit here is a rare, but well-known breed of drug addict — the super junkie. These people somehow make a living off the grid in what can only be described as functioning one notch higher than a drug-induced coma. All circumstances considered, some people are forced into this lifestyle, but those who willingly choose so are no more respectable than the empty can of Natural Light I kicked across the street on my slow walk home from campus.
I’ve come to think of it as a twisted redistribution of wealth. Either my bike was used to carry a smooth-handed freshman to his first class, or it was one of the many things stolen daily by your typical crack-riddled, pill-popping, pre-Iron Man Robert Downey Jr. super junkie to assist in his pathetic habit. If you fit any of the two descriptions above and stole a single-geared, black road bike, then shoot me an e-mail. I won’t break your hands with a club, I promise.
Despite my loss, I have learned a grave lesson from this ordeal: Property, no matter who owns it, is still property, from the pen you borrowed today in class to the frat boy driving around Daddy’s salary in the form of a Mercedes-Benz. but you can’t dwell for too long — you might begin abusing depression meds.
Oh yeah, and for the love of Mote, go buy yourself a U-lock.
Jason Kramer is a junior American studies major. He can be reached at kramer at umdbk dot com.
