There are eight million stories in the naked city; this is just one of them. My bike was stolen today. I had a weird feeling as I chained it to the light pole outside my gym near Boston’s South Station at about 3:00 this afternoon. I was using one of those long, curly wire locks encased in hard plastic with a four-digit combination. But I figured it was pretty safe, as it was on a busy city street, right across from the train station, and directly in front of a taxi stand where there are always at least a half dozen cabbies waiting for a fare. But when I came out of the gym at about 4:30, my bike had vanished.
About six years ago, my bike was stolen from in front our home. I was using the same type of lock, and had chained my bike to our front fence while I ran inside. About 10 minutes later, I came outside to run an errand and my bike were gone. A few days later, Peter surprised me with a new set of wheels. He had gone to our local bike shop, picked out a new model, and had it waiting for me when I got home from work. It was a wonderful gesture, and I loved that bike.
Now I’m bike-less again, but I’ve learned my lesson. When I get my next bike (tomorrow, I’m going shopping at our favorite bike shop, Community Bike Supply in the South End), I’m going to buy a sturdier lock. While I don’t know for a fact that Boston is the bike theft capital of the United States, I do know that I’m not anxious to be victimized again.