Poor Bike

I first found the bike a couple years ago, parked by our front gate. It was obviously stolen - the license had been painted over - and it had been ridden into the ground. I knew immediately that someone had ditched this one to steal my Cannondale.

I was crushed. I fixed this one up a bit, but it was too small for me to ride comfortably. I kept it around. Paulo rode it while he stayed here, then Roy rode it on the North Shore. It was fine for the country, but when Roy moved back to the city I bought him a good road bike. And we abandoned this poor guy again, propping him up in the side yard and moving on.

When I was packing the last of Roy's stuff Saturday I noticed the forgotten bike. I felt a pang of regret when I put it outside the gate for the scavengers to pick over - it was another memory that I needed to say goodbye to. I figured a student would pick it up, or one of the homeless guys trekking down from their camp on Wa`ahila. Or just some random crackhead.

It was still there when I left for work this morning. Fuckers steal everything that isn't nailed down in this neighborhood, but there sat my lonely neglected bike. I felt for it - as if a bike could have feelings. I almost turned around to bring it inside.

And so I was glad to see it when I got home. I brought it inside. I'll fix it up, and have it ready for the next friend in need.