Ok, I may have been a bit presumptuous in accusing my financially and socially disadvantaged neighbours, but I needed to let out my anger somehow about the situation. They were MY bikes, I rode them, I worked on them, I cleaned them and most importantly, I PAID for them. These lowlifes had stolen my livelihood.
I wanted to storm the commission block, smashing in door after door until I found them, or spray paint the ugly orange bricks of their hideous 1970’s buildings with the words “GIVE ME MY BIKES BACK YOU JUNKIES”, but I quite like my life, and let’s face it, either of these two acts would have put it in serious danger.
So, Facebook it was – that was my outlet. And it helped. Thanks Facebook, and thanks social media; maybe the Invisible Children are right, maybe those generation Z’ers with their hip 80’s inspired haircuts will find Kony and start a revolution!
Anyhow, I digress. My bikes were a huge part of my life, a huge part of me, like an extension of me somehow. Kind of like a third arm I guess. And they had just taken my arm! Like those that have lost loved ones, and I’m guessing those that have lost arms also, I have since gone through the various stages of grief. There are five I think: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
Denial was fleeting, but it was definitely there. As I stood looking at the empty space where they used to sit I couldn’t believe they were gone, perhaps I’d left them somewhere, or moved them, or sold them? I have been selling a lot of stuff on Ebay lately, it has gotten quite addictive. In a flurry of frenzied Ebay selling, had I flipped my bikes for a tidy profit?
No, I’d not left them anywhere and there was no Ebay sale, a visit to the police station had promptly brought me back to earth.
Later that day I moved to the second stage – anger. Sitting at my desk, fuming, my blood started to boil as I went through all the scenarios in my head about how it had happened, who had taken them and what will become of them. These lowlifes had taken something that didn’t belong to them. They didn’t earn these bikes. They hadn’t worked hard for them. How can someone do this? It made me so angry. And so, in my fit of bottled up rage I did what any self-respecting Aussie male does when truly pissed off – I went got a beer with some mates!
Right now I’m experiencing a mixture of bargaining and depression. My head swirls around – going back and forth between the two. I bargain with myself, somehow trying to turn this negative into a positive, thinking things like “maybe the insurance company will come through… and if they do, maybe I could use this as an opportunity to upgrade!”
But no matter how I spin it in my head, the huge financial loss is clear as day and that brings me back around to depression, which manifests itself as something like a small child who has dropped their ice cream. Picture the little asian girl in the Hollywood classic ‘The Goonies’ who gets her bike stolen by teen heartthrob Brand…. Yep, that’s me, a little girl, stomping on the floor, yelling “I want my bike, I want my bike.”
I’m not quite at acceptance yet but I’ll get there eventually…. I hope. I usually get over things by getting thoughts down in words, so yes, you are reading my own version of therapy! A few more angry letters to the police and the body corporate and I’ll be right as rain!
Oh – and yeah, if you see these two bikes anywhere around, please contact me!
|Ghost Lector 5800 - A beast of a bike, it will be sorely missed|
|My trusty workhorse, Fuji Roubaix 1.0 with significant upgrades. Farewell.|