For the Love of Bikes

"...when your bike is stolen your confidence in the city is shattered. A little piece of you dies."

-Casey Neistat, bike lover and fellow victim of city bike thieves

When I moved to San Francisco, I was excited to live without a car. The east coast cities that I knew provided excellent public transportation, convenient layouts, and easy access to necessities. I expected that cities were just that, easy to navigate, fast-paced, and efficient. Then I got to San Francisco. Maybe I should blame the hills, or my chronic lateness, but the MUNI and BART just didn't cut it. I spent extra time figuring out bus routes, often got off at the wrong stop, and walked many long city blocks only to realize I had strayed a mile in the wrong direction.

Then I bought a bike. All at once I became happier, more fit, and less late. Once I knew how quickly I could move—13 minutes to work, nine minutes to Ocean Beach, 5 minutes to the grocery store—I started biking everywhere, day and night. I saved money on taxis, saved time waiting for buses, and spent more time outside. Life felt simple.

Until I left my bike in my apartment lobby for a few minutes too long. I used to walk by that empty space and my heart broke a bit for the smooth leather seat, upright handlebars, and too-expensive bike lights I would never see again.

I started riding the bus again, running the four blocks to work from the bus stop, arriving breathless and sweaty after a 40-minute commute. As a bartender with the night shift, and I didn't have time or energy to waste.

So I started scanning Craigslist and found a $300 Trek road bike with a carbon fiber fork and brand new parts. It was definitely meant for a tall man, but I figured I could always alter the handlebars for a few bucks—I was desperate.

Thursday morning I crossed the bay to the Berkeley campus where I handed over half my net worth in cash to the friendly grad student who was only too happy to offload his extra road bike. As I rode away, life started to flow again. Coasting down a gentle hill in North Berkeley, I smiled and breathed in the fall air. My life as a bike owner had begun once again.

Fast forward one ferry ride and a few excited texts to friends and the lights of the Embarcadero lit up across the water. The city buzzed with commuters and the energy and chaos of everyone fleeing downtown at once.

Since I didn’t have a light, I decided to take one final bus ride home, this time with my bike firmly secured on the front of the bus. I hopped on, said hello to my driver, and settled into my seat. I opened my book and started to read.

One page later, the bus lurched to a stop and more passengers hopped on. Standard procedure. The doors shut and the bus lurched forward again. Then the driver slammed on the horn.

"He's got your bike," he yelled, honking and simultaneously cranking the bus door open. I threw my book against the wall, dropped my bag in my seat, and sprinted out the door in a blur of adrenaline. I sprinted across Market Street in the midst of honking horns and throngs of commuters. I must have yelled something, but all I remember was the pound of my boots on the damp sidewalk.

I remember flashes of concrete, a blur of people, cars and lights. Through a gap in the crowds I could see pedals moving. And my heart sunk deeper. He was getting away.

Somehow I gained on him, just as a crowd of people gathered, slowing him down. I couldn’t see through my anger, all I could do was yell.

"I just bought this bike today,” I said, probably including some explicative and definitely attempting to fight the offender. Just then, a flash of khaki pushed past, tackling thief and bike to the ground. It was Gregory, my 6'5" bus driver who had followed me. As the crowd dispersed, I stood frozen to my spot, bike in hand. Across Market Street, a bus full of people looked on.

The thief got away, Gregory gathered himself, knee bloody and khaki uniform torn from the scuffle. I walked back as he limped beside me. The bus riders cheered and clapped.

"You're a pretty fast runner,” he said. After explaining that I ran track in college, and considered myself fairly able to catch anyone in a race, he told me about his days playing college basketball.

Leaving the bus is highly illegal for MUNI drivers, according to SFMTA and he had violated policy to help me, a girl he feared would get hurt in pursuit of a potentially dangerous bike thief. For the next half hour we answered police reports, dealt with paramedics (for his knee), and attempted to describe the thief. All I could remember was darkness: Dark clothes, dark streets, and my blinding anger.

The police offered me and my bike a ride home, and I took it. Drained and angry but triumphant, I returned home to canister of pepper spray from my roommate. I couldn’t believe that my passion for biking had caused such a stir in the middle of rush hour. I guess I’ve always had more of a fight instinct.

The following night Gregory came into my restaurant where I bought him dinner. He shared our story with anyone who would listen, recounting the moment I ran through traffic at rush hour, and the moment he knew he wouldn’t watch me fight alone. As we rehashed the details, both shocked at our reactions, we couldn’t help smiling a bit. That bike thief may think twice before his next bus heist.

Now I bike on, appreciating the freedom that comes with that thin black frame and little red pedals.

UPDATE (2018): One year later, I arrived to find my car door broken open and bike stolen. Maybe this too-big bike wasn’t meant to be mine for long. Since then I found myself a shiny blue Cannondale, well-fit for my 5’9” frame. It has survived a cross-country road trip, multiple triathlons and my foray into real road biking. It’s been my constant companion, with me for longer than my husband, and it still makes me smile.

Want to see another reaction to city bike thieves? Casey Neistat weighs in here.