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Stolen saddle

It's eleven o'clock. I say goodbye to my friend who came for dinner.

Where is my saddle?

My bicycle looks bald without it. Where did it go?

I blink. It's still not there.

Deja vu.

Seven years ago, I left my black mountain bike unlocked for two minutes in Westminster. I merely went inside my flat with my shopping bags. When I came back, my bike had disappeared. I blinked. It was gone. Just like that.

For days I mourned for it. I cursed myself for letting it out of my sight, for not locking it up, and for trusting the system.

When my pink ladies' mountain bike got stolen from the tube station, I scolded myself for leaving it overnight. It was locked.

In the last few years, I've had my seat cover and a bike saddle stolen at the same station. I decided to beat my bicycles up, deliberately scratching them and not washing them. I wanted to make them look as dirty and unwanted as possible.

Lately I grew too trusting of the system.

Right outside my front door, my bike saddle gets stolen. I am furious. My other bike has a flat tire and a seat that has come off the saddle. I am crippled without a proper bicycle. How inconvenient! How irritating!

21 July 2004 Wednesday

Related links:
Have lights, will cycle
Cycling across London
Losing my wallet
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Anne Ku at Ilp in May 2001
Anne Ku

writes about her travels, conversations, thoughts, events, music, and anything else that is interesting enough to fill a web page.
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