The return of the mini rod

I used to think there was nothing worse than having one’s bike stolen. Granted, I have only had the displeasure of experiencing the pain of a cruiser sacrificed to the night once before. But aside from being in the throes of an immediate commuting crisis, I couldn’t help but feel a deep, personal violation. Steal my morning paper, have your dog poop on my front lawn, let your car alarm go off at 3 a.m. Hell, even steal my car – at least that’s insured. Just don’t take my ride.

However, upon leaving the house this Tuesday morning, I realized there is, in fact, something worse. As I loaded one child in the bike trailer and prepared to get the next one on his bike to go to school, something seemed strangely amiss.

“Baxter, where’s your bike,” I asked, as he stood in the middle of the yard, seemingly perplexed.

“I dunno,” he shrugged.

A quick scan of the sidewalk, porch and back yard produced nothing as reality sunk in. The custom red “Mini Rod” cruiser, the one we had gotten for his 4th birthday, complete with red rims and yellow flames, last seen around dusk on the sidewalk in front of the house Monday night, Oct. 15, was gonzo.

Suddenly, my blood boiled and my heart broke simultaneously as I realized that the only thing worse than having your bike stolen is having your child’s bike stolen. OK, maybe having the child on the bike when it is stolen might be worse. But did I mention that it had training wheels? Which is a coincidence, since the person or persons who took it will probably need a wheel chair when I’m through with them.

OK, I know the way to a late-night, petty thief’s slobbering, drunken heart is not through violence or idle threats. But I’m pretty sure when it comes to bike thieves, they’re on the evolutionary ladder right below dinner-time telemarketers, door-to-door salesmen and e-mail spammers. And those who steal a kid’s bike? Well, I shudder to think of the karmic repercussions, but I hope it involves a swarm of angry bees, a bad sunburn, tightie whities and a large crowd of onlookers. I mean, what do these people do for real fun? Kick puppies and swindle old people out of their Social Security checks? Maybe rob an orphanage along the way and steal from the collection plate at church?

I know I am not entirely without fault here. For starters, I am way too trusting. You’d think I would have learned my lesson the time someone stole a load of my underwear from a dryer at a local laundromat. I mean, I was only gone for a second, and besides, I don’t care how late at night it is and how lonely you are, who the hell takes a load of some

one else’s used undergarments? And bear in mind, I’m a Midwesterner. We’re talking nothing more risque than striped grannie panties (at least I got the last laugh on that one.)

Alas, I digress. After all, I was the parent on duty that night upon arriving home from preschool, which involves rolling the bike up a small hill and tucking it up next to the house – which I neglected to do in favor of wine on my neighbor’s porch. But then again, it was free wine. Besides, I live on a seldom traveled, basically dead-end street where I’ve done equally stupid things, like leave my wallet on the front seat of my car for an entire weekend or my front door wide open all day, without so much as a library card out of place.

Anyway, I think it’s safe to say, I more than made up for my horrendous blunder. Not only did the red wine give me hellacious heartburn (never again on a Monday night, I don’t care who’s buying), but I spent the entire next morning combing the local alleyways, backyards and bushes in search of the little red rod. I even thought I had found it at one point, only to have my hopes dashed by a Huffy imposter.

Which of course, begs the next question. Why spend a lot of money on a bike for a 4-year-old who can’t even tie his own shoes let alone be responsible for an expensive bicycle. Well, for starters, this is Durango, where most people’s bikes cost more than their cars. Secondly, that bike was supposed to last him until middle school, at which time it would be handed down to his sister (the “flames” henceforth referred to as “butterflies.”)

Usually, this is the part where I lament about how much Durango has changed and gone “big city.” How you can no longer trust your neighbors – unless it’s to steal from you. But you know what? I’m not going there.

That’s right. No sooner had I penned this piece, then a fine, upstanding citizen saw one of the flyers I had plastered all over the neighborhood and gave us a call. Seems she came upon the bike discarded in the bushes along Frat Row, no doubt after slobbery drunk guy realized that riding a kid’s 10-inch bike really isn’t that fun after all.

See, while there are those out there slimy enough to swipe another’s mini rod (most likely because they don’t have one of their own or the one they have is grossly inadequate) they are to be pitied. And, most importantly, they are the minority. Call me delusional, but I truly believe that the good people of Durango will always prevail, ensuring that justice is served and no one shall get away with coveting another’s mini rod.

Now if only we could work on getting that underwear back.

– Missy Votel