Memoirs of a stolen bike

So there I was ... minding my own business walking down East Avenue Friday afternoon. And I saw it — my stolen bike.

Now, mind you, I've seen what appeared to be my bike 1,022 times in the past two weeks. In fact, it's amazing how much every bike that has ever been produced in the history of bikes looks like mine from a distance.

But no. This one was really mine. A 26-inch black Mongoose mountain bike with a black and red seat. And it was just sitting there in front of the Lockport Public Library — less than 100 feet from where it had been stolen in the early morning hours of Oct. 18, when it was unceremoniously plucked from in front of the Lockport Family YMCA, where I had diligently locked it to the bike rack a few hours prior.

Well, truth be told, it wasn't just sitting there. It was being propped up by some teenage punk who was sitting atop it — surrounded by six other teenage punks, each with his own bike — or each with someone else's bike they had stolen as well.

"Be cool, Leffler," I told myself. Yes, even I refer to myself by just my last name. It's a learned habit I suppose.

I had been thinking for two weeks what exactly I would do if I ran across someone on my bike. What if they were on it? What if they were riding it? What it if was just sitting in a pile of bikes somewhere unattended? What if it was locked to a bike rack somewhere? I played out all the scenarios in my head as I ran across all the bikes that looked like mine from a distance but then weren't up close.

I had a specific plan for what to do if someone was sitting on it in a stationary position. It was a little dicey and could result in injury if I didn't pull it off right. But ...

So I acted as though I was simply walking by, weaving through the seven kids on bikes until I was directly behind mine and close enough to touch it. I reached out my right hand and grabbed the back wheel, lifting it up off the ground — completely freaking out the aforementioned punk. (Side note: As I'm now 40, I feel it is well within my rights to refer to teenagers as "punks." I'm at least another decade away from being able to use "whippersnappers," though.)

So this kid says, "What the (expletive) are you doing to my bike?"

"Actually, it's my bike," I said back. And you can either walk now or I can call the cops."

"What makes you think it's your bike?" he asked back.

"Well, it's my bike. That's my old lock hanging off it. And right there (points with free hand — the one not keeping the rear tire in the air, preventing him from taking off with my bike) is part of what used to be the back light. I see you got the front light off, though."

"My friend gave me this bike a week ago," he said. Mmm hmm. Likely story.

"Well then your friend stole it from me and as I said, I'll gladly call the police to come settle this," I said, adding, "Look, I'm 40 years old (I find if I repeat it often, it helps to cope). So I'm not going to steal a bike from some kid. But I'm also not going to let some kid steal my bike. So? Shall I dial 911?"

The kid — sorry, punk kid — got off my bike and headed east on East Avenue, surrounded by his punk friends.

When they were far enough away, one of them turned around and yelled, "We'll just steal it back!"

Good luck with that, kid.

Scott Leffler is a 40-year-old writer and part-time superhero. And he was touched by the number of people that have taken time out of their day in the past two weeks to ask about his bike. Follow him on Twitter @scottleffler. 

This column was originally published on East Niagara Post.

Open letter to the jerk who stole my bike

When I walked into the Lockport Police Department around 10 a.m. Saturday, Officer Rick Provenzano went to hand me the press clipboard filled with arrest reports so I could do ENP's daily log of Lockport arrests.

"Actually, I'm here to make a report," I told him. "Someone stole my bike."

"It's a 26-inch Mongoose mountain bike," I explained. "Twenty-one speed. Black with a black and red seat. Lights on the front and back."

Rick diligently took my report, writing every word I said, asking for additional details.

"Value?"
"I think it was $500 when I bought it. So, let's say $250 now?"

"Where and when was it stolen?"
"Overnight in front of the YMCA —  locked to the bike rack there."

"Do you want someone arrested if we catch them?"
"Yes."

"Are you going to put this in The Post?"
"No."

But then I thought about it. And I talked to Heather about it. And yeah. Yeah, I'm going to put this in The Post.

Side note before I get started here: It amuses me that some people call ENP "The Post." I'm not entirely sure why. But I like it. So thanks for the smile during my frustrating morning, Officer Provenzano.

Okay. So, look, bike thief: It's a nice bike. I can understand why you would want it. But it's not yours. And I want it back.

Were you under the impression that a bike that was locked to the YMCA's bike rack was abandoned and unwanted? Did you think it was OK for you to cut the lock and take it? Did you think I wouldn't notice it was missing? Or that I wouldn't miss it? Or mind?

Did you ride it a few blocks and ditch it, like so many stolen bikes in Lockport? Or did you sink it to the bottom of the canal like so many others? Is it holed up in your garage with a collection of other bikes you've stolen? Do you also steal wallets and cell phones? Because a few years ago, I had those stolen, too.

I'm betting taxpayers probably paid your rent this month. And bought your groceries. And that wasn't enough? You had to take my bike, too? Seriously, how low can you stoop?

At first I said I wouldn't press charges if someone was caught. People make mistakes. And it's just a bike. But then I said, wait. Yeah, I want to press charges.

"Is that the right answer," I asked Provenzano.

He nodded and said, "You can always change your mind later."

Mainly I filed the report because I wanted to be able to get it back if and when the police find it. I didn't want to have to buy it back at the big bike auction in the spring. Or worse, have someone else outbid me on my own bike. But ... yeah. Yeah, I want to press charges.

That bike is my primary means of transportation — and some days my primary source of pleasure. So why do you think you needed it so bad that you could just take it? What gives you the right?

Maybe you've seen me riding around town. If I'm not riding around, I'm walking. I go through shoes faster than tire tubes, but I go through a lot of those, too. On warm days, I take that bike just about anywhere. I've ridden it to Middleport on more than one occasion. Sanborn. Amherst. Buffalo. Yeah, Buffalo.

Side note: East Niagara is not exactly bike friendly. Erie County is much more so, especially the closer you get to Buffalo.

The biggest irony here is that I just bought a new lock for it. And by "just," I mean Friday. My old lock was getting hard to open and I was afraid that some day soon, I would lock my bike to something and not be able to unlock it. I didn't want to strand myself somewhere in the middle of the night because, where are you going to find a lock cutter in the middle of the night? Now I know. You had one. Probably stole that, too.

Jerk.

By the way, the back tire felt a little splooshy Friday. You probably want to put some air in it.

Scott Leffler is the news editor for East Niagara Post and avid bicyclist. Or he was two days ago. Now he's an avid walker. A disgruntled avid walker. 

This column was originally published on East Niagara Post.