The Confession of Compulsive Joy Ride

In light of recent anti-theft posts by Bike Snob NYC, I have a confession to make.

At the bike rack a few weeks ago, I noticed a late 1990s Cannondale CAAD3 left unlocked outside of work. Granted, it's Omaha and theft isn't very common. But still, for goodness sake lock your bike! Don't you know that you're asking for trouble?!

At first I was surprised by how cavalier the owner was about this bicycle, leaving it unlocked and such. I guessed that s/he forgot their lock and was playing the safety in numbers theory. But when I rolled up on the second day and found the bike was unsecured again, I became alarmed. On day three I laughed. Day four: irritated. Day five: angry. By day six I was incredulous. This was reckless!!

Admittedly, I can easily become attached to a bicycle: mine, yours, whoever's. This had certainly become the case for the CAAD3. And so it followed that I fretted about it getting stolen. I acknowledge having a problem with this attachment disorder, but I rationalized that there were worse forms of obsessive compulsions. To cope, I popped an imaginary happy pill and let the gripping anxiety break away like the peloton at the end of a furious club ride.

It wasn't but a few days before I found myself itching and scratching around that unlocked Cannondale again. I couldn't take it anymore. Something in my mind snapped as allowed myself to become deeply lustful of that butterscotch bomber.

Originally an aluminum road bike, it had since been reconsigned to commuter work with a mishmash of road, mountain and cyclocross parts. Its allure was in its unashamed nakedness and exotic blend of components that made it stand out among the big box store mountain bikes and roadies.

I couldn't stop myself from thinking about it. I just had to take a ride. Just one spin around the block, I reasoned, wasn't going to hurt anyone...

So the next morning, I boldly slipped that CAAD3 out like a thief in the early morning light. The flaws of the bicycle were immediately noticeable -- the rubbing brake pads against a front rim in desperate need of truing; a rear derailleur that sounded like it was thrashing wheat -- but I didn't mind. It was simply delightful to give into my desires.

The sparkling sunlight danced off of the smooth asphalt tarmac as I sped away from the stresses of work, deadlines and dreary project meetings. With each downward thrust and quick circling motion of the crank, I became more engaged in this covetous act. I rode past the first city block without a thought of stopping. I breezed through a handful of intersections while sweat beads began forming on my brow.

Just ahead in the distance, a blinking hand at the crosswalk became a foreboding omen. The freewheel spun as I paused to consider that the responsibilities of work and life. Work or play? The hesitation was momentary. Jumping into a full sprint, I hammered through the intersection with rocketing heart rate. And as I coasted through the yellow traffic light and gulped in the sweet air, I swear I could hear the satisfactory hum of it's 700x38C knobby tires.

A good 20 minutes later, a funky patina clung to me as I returned the bike to the rack. It was more than simply angry bacteria festering beneath my arms. What stunk was my guilty conscience. I reeked of it. And while wisdom told me that the urges were momentarily satisfied, it would only be a matter of hours before the craving for another tryst returned.

I had to find a way to prevent recidivism. Acting quickly, I scribbled an anonymous note to the owner, mentioning the stuff about getting the wheel trued and lubing the drive-train. Closing, I underscored the value of getting and using a lock. As I slid the note between the brake cable and top tube, I said a desperate prayer that it would be taken to heart.

So there it is. I publicly confess to you, my steel-cut readers, that I've become attached another's bicycle and am in need of penance.

Epilogue
Sadly, it's been two weeks and that bike still remains unlocked. While I've managed to restrain my urges, my lecherous eye finds that chocolate dream long before Old Yeller's wheel stops rolling up to the bike rack. My diseased mind is fixated on it. I yearn for another ride.

Help me help myself!