My life took a dark turn in the months after my bike got stolen. I bought a "Death to bike thieves" sticker and displayed it prominently on my replacement ride. I started sporting black nail polish and a short, punk haircut.
I got piercings and launched a blog (you're looking at it) to channel what I called my "post-theft fury."
Had a vengeful spirit consumed me? Was I descending into a joyless abyss of bitterness and hatred and suspicion? Had the thief robbed me of the delight I once derived from biking?
No.
A March email from my boyfriend began:
if you had an engraving somewhere on your bike that could only take 14 characters, what would you want it to say?
His suggestion (he was sticking with my sticker's theme):
Death Thieves
I answered:
Maybe "Thief beware," but I kind of don't want thieves to be the dictating force behind everything I do (or don't do) with my bike... Maybe something having to do with the freedom biking makes possible?
A dozen emails later we'd settled on something to do with the need to breathe deeply and be happy and relax. I had no idea what was up, and my fondness for surprises kept me from inquiring, but before the week was out a pair of Lizard Skins lock-on grips arrived in the mail, bearing a personalized and much needed message:
So now when I cruise the capital on my bike—newly gripped and more precious to me than ever—I glance down at my handlebars, inhale positivity, and feel the tension fade.
You will not get the better of me, bike thieves.
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