I set out to reclaim my stolen bike and ended up stealing one myself. What's your most shameful cycling secret?
? What to do if your bike is stolen
? Bike thief tells how to stop your cycle from being stolen
It was my first brand new bike. Nothing fancy ? the cheapest Ridgeback on the market ? but I was really proud of it and I loved it.
Two months later, on a sunny Saturday afternoon I locked it up on Whitechapel High Street in London. There were lots of people about, I felt sure it would be fine, but two hours later, it was gone. The lock was lying on the pavement. It had been cut straight through with a pair of bolt cutters. I was gutted.
I felt sure it would turn up at Brick Lane the next day and tried to arrange to meet the police there so that we could look for it together and reclaim it. I see police there regularly. I just wanted to be in touch with them before I set out. The woman on the other end of the phone told me that they couldn't go along with me but if I was to find my bike I should ring 999 and they'd be straight over. I didn't want to argue but I couldn't see how that was going to help, my bike would be long gone in the time it took them to reach me.
I was at the market by eight. The stallholders were still setting up, unloading vans, putting up awnings. Because it was early I was able to walk the length of the market in just a few minutes. Later on I knew it would be so crowded that walking the same strip would take at least half an hour ? which is also how I knew that if was I was to call 999, the police wouldn't be able to make it through the crowd to help me.
At the far end of Cheshire Street a particularly scary-looking man was directing two others who were unloading bikes from a van. People were crowded round, they were selling fast. He had his back to me, he was wearing a white t-shirt and was shaven headed. He was absolutely huge. I knew if my bike came out the back of that van I'd be going home to save up for another one without saying a word, but I watched anyway. My silver ridgeback didn't come out of his van but lots of other bikes did.
At the other end of the market I loitered near a similar scene. Another van was being unloaded. Another man directing others to unload second-hand bikes. I recognised this stall as one that occupies the same spot every week. This fella also deals in tools. Two pieces of the puzzle clicked together and I kicked myself for never having thought of it before. Van plus bolt cutter, angle grinder and car jack equals a very easy way of scooping up several bikes from one spot within minutes. The stallholder pointed to a red racer, and I heard him say: "Get rid of that one, whatever you have to do, even if you only get 40 quid for it, I don't care it's got to go." My Ridgeback wasn't in his van so I moved on before he noticed me.
By 10 o'clock I'd been at the market for over two hours and it was getting crowded. The white vans that pulled up at the ends of streets and unloaded several bikes at time had stopped coming but bikes were still arriving. Teenagers were riding them in, gathering on the corner Cygnet Street. This is where I saw my bike. My pristine, two-month-old silver ladies Ridgeback, except now it had a buckled front wheel, and it was missing a seat post. The seat was perched skew-whiff, unsecured, directly on top of the frame. I couldn't tell how old the boy holding it was ? maybe 14. But I was relieved that he was smaller than me. Maybe that's why he'd removed the seatpost. There was no way that this was a bike of his that he had grown out of. I was scared but angry enough to go ahead and speak to him. I asked him how much he wanted. He said �90. I told him that it was my bike and he could either give it to me or he could wait for the police to arrive and I would show them my receipt. He turned around and walked away.
I took a deep breath and started to wheel my unrideable bike through what were now thick crowds between the stalls. When I had confronted the boy I had noticed a man who looked old enough to be his father watching us from the other side of the narrow street. The boy had walked off in his direction. As I looked over my shoulder I could see this man was now behind me in the crowds. Brick Lane's Sunday morning market peters out along Bethnal Green High Street and then stops dead when it reaches Shoreditch High Street. Once you cross over Shoreditch High Street you enter the commercial part of the City which is eerily quiet over the weekend. My route home was down the narrow street on the other side of the High Street. A street with lots of kinks in it and little or no visibility ahead or behind. I had looked over my shoulder four or five times by now, and made eye contact with the man who was following me more than once. We both knew that he was going to catch up with me as soon as I crossed the road. I couldn't see that there was anything else for me to do. I got on the bike and rode it, with its wobbly seat and no seat post. My bum was so low down that my knees were practically hitting my chin, the buckled front wheel clonked on every revolution and the brakes had been disconnected ? but I didn't care. I just needed to get away from this man who I believed was intent on doing me harm.
I made eye contact with the man chasing me once more as I clanked away down the street. He had stopped following me. He took one good sour look at my face and turned around to walk back into the market.
I made it home in one piece and, after a deep breath and a cup of tea, flipped my bike over to remove the buckled front wheel.
Here comes the shameful part. This is when I checked the serial number against my receipt and realised that this wasn't my bike after all. It was the same make and colour but it wasn't mine. I kept it anyway.
? As told to Frederika Whitehead.
What's your most shameful cycling story? Post it below or email an outline.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/bike-blog/2011/jul/06/brick-lane-reclaim-stolen-bike
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