The dawn of a new decade. 2010 rolled around two weeks prior and although it was just another day starting as the ball dropped like a guillotine on 2009, many (including myself) chose to mark this as a fresh beginning. A clean slate, if you will. Change, renewal, and rebirth seemed less novel and suddenly tangible as you hung up that new calendar depicting cute puppies, sweaty firemen, or lighthouses from around the world. Perhaps you loaded another grocery bag full of resolutions you’re already struggling to fulfill in your daily life. How triumphant it must have been to even think of them, let alone attempt their manifestation. Don’t give up hope. Not just yet.
Personally, 2010 IS one of those years for me. I have yet to implement some glossy 12-month calendar depicting people, things, or places I’d rather be with, at, or in, but I’m gunning for the “clean slate” approach full boar, starting with a new place that my girl, Jessie, and I are holin’ up in come Friday. A new physical home, a new neighborhood, fresh living with my lover of 2 ½ years – man, things are great! In addition, goals have been set and WILL be achieved. But then there was last night.
All was well as I loaded up my belongings in truck load #2 of the evening. Darkness is everpresent, the precipitous clouds are on the verge of overcoming their constipation, and it’s an anaerobic race against time, hefting furniture, boxes, and anything in my periphery into the bed of the truck. I first rolled out my bike, took note that it would be best fit on top of the load, and set it aside. It’s a black bike, and again it was dark outside. Before you know it I’m on the road heading to the new pad. Halfway through the unloading process, I take a moment to reflect and then it hits me like an ungrateful pimp. “Fuckin’ A! The bike didn’t make the load. Spaced it. Shit! Get back home, pronto!”
My worst fears were materialized as I pulled into the driveway and didn’t see my DH steed. Eddie must have moved it inside, being the awesome landlord he is. Spoke to Eddie and he didn’t move a thing, hear a thing, or see a thing. Fuck! Mount the road bike, scour the neighborhood for leads, and then realize it’s Oakland. That bike is probably already stripped and on Craigslist by now. I called the police, am told that they’re too busy to send someone out, and direct me to file a report on line. So I did and now I’m here, assessing the mistakes I made and also confirming that faith in humanity, our fellow neighbors, is out the door. So keep yours locked.
I didn’t sleep well last night knowing I was ripped off. In this new sea of change I saw all the good and began to neglect even the possibility of the bad. Much like riding bikes, you’ve eventually gotta pay to play in the game of LIFE, whether it be in the form of financial, physical, and/or mental expenditures. This learning lesson provided me with an update that I’m safe, it’s just a bike, and there’s so much worse that could have arisen. But man, bikes are an extension of my self and I honestly felt like a piece of me was amputated.
If you spot a 2006 Iron Horse 7 point 7 with a custom parts spec., black, medium, super Gucci condition……drop me a line. I’m my own vigilante task at this point as a result of Oakland’s overworked police staff. But then again, you’re probably too busy checking out that cuddle little Golden Retriever on the August 2010 page of that calendar.






