First one thing happens

First one thing happens, then another, and another, and before you know it, you’ve come full circle. Only, in this case, having completed the circumference, I find myself with an extra bicycle, a small dent in the driver’s side front fender of my ’94 Taurus wagon, and an honorable mention in the “Village Police Report.” Someone up there must be smiling.

It was a Sunday morning. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. I hadn’t been to church in awhile, so I showered, shaved, put on my long pants and got ready to leave. It was a nice day. I decided to ride my bike. In the process of transferring the junk from the pockets of my shorts, I considered not bringing my car keys. I wouldn’t need them, but I decided to bring them anyway. You never know…

Despite the many warnings from my wife, I was in the habit of leaving my bike under the eaves in front of my converted garage. Two-and-a-half years without incident, but on this occasion, when I came out the bike was gone. This was a ten-speed that I’d had for thirty years. The seat and the handle bars had been adjusted that long ago. I’d bought it new in Maine from my ex-brother-in-law, who was running a failing sporting goods store in Kennebunkport. I’d ridden it in Maine, New York, and Ohio. I can’t imagine how many miles. I never felt the need for change, except for the occasional flat.

I felt for the car keys in my pocket. If they hadn’t been there, I would probably have gone back inside and stayed there. I wondered about that little voice in my head as I drove to Sunday worship. After church, I paid a visit to the police dispatcher and Sergeant Nipper was called in from the field to take my report. ‘What’s the value?” he asked. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. I paid $125 for it new. With a little luck, I could have gotten twenty-five bucks for it at a garage sale.” “Don’t worry, I’ll find it!” he said.

On Tuesday I stopped by the police department. The weather was great, the gas prices were on the rise, and I was getting antsy. On Thursday, I checked the newspaper. Sure enough, it had made the police report. On Friday I visited the dispatcher again – nothing. I had conducted my own search, figuring some kid had needed a ride on Saturday night, borrowed my bike, and ditched it somewhere. I’d been to a number of local bike racks and even searched some thick bushes where I thought it might have been left. Nothing! I started thinking about getting another bike, perhaps a new one with 15, 18, or 21 speeds. What for, I wondered, I only use two or three around town. Maybe I’d get me some kind of flashy cruiser, with fenders and a headlight, something like the bike from “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.” Who needs gears?

On Monday I had a bunch of errands to run in Xenia. It had been more than a week. Somewhere on my shopping list I had entered the word “bike.” As I was driving down North Detroit Street, I spotted a house with about 50 bicycles on the front lawn. This is a kind of Xenia tradition, people selling bikes off their lawn. I decided to check it out on my way back out of town. Who knew, maybe I’d find my own bike. I wondered what I would do.

My errands done, I found myself pacing up and down the two rows, examining the corroding artifacts like some kind of bicycle anthropologist. One rusty three-speed “Free Spirit” coaxed a snicker. The quintessential Yellow Springs bike, I thought. A Mongoose in the second row caught my eye – too flashy? – I wasn’t sure. A bike can say a lot about a person. No one came out of the house to greet me, but there was a phone number on a makeshift sign. I dialed it on my cell phone and ten minutes later the lady of the house was there to help me.

The bikes in the front row were five bucks apiece. Those in the back were from fifteen to twenty-five. The Mongoose was in the back row, but I’d noticed a shimmy in the rear hub while I was waiting. The Free Spirit was in the front row. I’d examined it more closely and decided that all it might need is a new set of tires and a can of WD-40. “I’ll take this one.” The woman looked at me a little funny. “I’m from Yellow Springs,” I explained. She smiled and nodded.

I threw the bike in the wagon and started to back out of the narrow driveway into the heavy traffic on North Detroit. When there was finally a break in the flow, I gunned it and cut my wheel sharply. I was so concentrated on the traffic to my right that I failed to notice the telephone pole close on my left. The ensuing crunch got my attention. The price of the bike suddenly went up. I checked the damage in the Groceryland parking lot.

By early afternoon I’d adjusted the seat, pumped up the tires, and applied heavy doses of WD-40 just about everywhere. I got on and rode it around the block. I found a broken spoke that I’d failed to notice in my initial inspection, but it didn’t seem to matter. I grabbed my backpack and rode it into town, taking Corry Street to the Post Office, and then on to my office on Dayton Street. I was beginning to fall in love with my new found treasure. What a smooth ride..! Perhaps a paint job and some shiny new wheels…

I decided to take the bike path on my way back home. As I passed the bike rack at the south end of the cabooses, something caught my eye. I jammed on the brakes and turned to look back. It was my bike! I examined it, not a scratch, nothing missing. I locked up my new-old bike and rode the old-old one home. On the way I thought about how the five dollar bike had been like a divining rod in the way it had led me to my lost bike. If I hadn’t bought it, I never would have been on the bike path and probably never would have found my stolen bike.

“I hope you learned your lesson,” my wife said. “What are you going to do with that rusty five dollar bike?” She protested when I told her I planned to leave it in front of the garage. “I don’t want that ugly thing in front of my house!” But who knows, maybe it will bring us more luck. As they’ve been saying a lot on TV lately, everything happens for a reason.