Over the many decades I have been writing a column, I’ve had some strange requests from kind readers who may think that I perhaps have magical powers.
The requests usually have to do with finding a lost treasure or helping to solve some sort of trouble with a problematic neighbor whose tree branch hangs over the back fence and blocks tomatoes from getting the proper amount of sunlight.
The assumption being that I will write about the offending tree branch, the neighbor will be properly shamed and decide to move to Medford and my reward will be a bag of red ripe homegrown tomatoes.
One time a nun called and asked if I would write about how much she grieved for her missing cat, which assumed the cat could read and would come running home to the convent.
I patiently explained that I generally don’t do lost cat stories and suggested she turn the whole thing over to St. Anthony, whose powers are much greater than mine when it comes to finding lost things.
If St. Anthony had the day off, next in line would be that great animal lover, St. Francis of Assisi.
The request I received the other day from my friend Jan may not have been the strangest ever, but it was certainly in the Top 10.
“Just about everyone I know has one or more favorite ‘Davis Bike Stories’ that they will share when asked,” Jan begins.
“I am writing to encourage you to ask your readers to share their favorite bike story and then, possibly, someone will read my favorite bike story and maybe I will finally get an answer.”
OK, Jan, tell your bike story.
“We moved into our house in January of 1980.”
As we say in journalism, Jan, don’t bury the lede.
“We had a lot less ‘stuff’ then and it all fit into one big U-Haul.”
Please wait while I grab some No-Doz.
“One of the first items to be unloaded was my almost brand-new brown Raleigh bike.”
My first bike was a shiny red ’56 Schwinn, so you have my attention now.
“It was parked near the garage and the rest of the unloading continued. Boxes and furniture moved into the house by helpful friends. And when we had finished the job we realized the bike had been taken from the driveway.”
I was once told that if bike theft were a felony, Davis would have the highest crime rate in the world.
“That spring we replaced the bike with another beautiful brown Raleigh from B&L Bikes and life pedaled on. From time to time I would remember the day when the bike vanished and I would feel sad.”
You had a bike stolen out of your driveway while I had a car stolen out of my driveway. The cops found it a month later in the parking lot of a Motel 6 in Woodland.
A 2-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi was missing, along with my rosary. I told the cops if they catch the guy he can keep the rosary because he was probably going to need it.
But back to Jan.
“Fast forward to Spring of 1996. Our 1980 toddler was graduating from Davis High School and preparing to head off to college. Then one day there on the driveway near the garage was the original brown Raleigh, a bit beaten up and somewhat dusty, but definitely the original bike.”
Are you making this up?
“Off and on in the 26 years since that day I have wondered who borrowed my bike.”
Jan, sit down and listen to me. When someone keeps your bike for 16 years, they did not “borrow” it. They stole it.
“Where had it traveled? Why was it returned?”
I called my Uncle Raleigh in North Dakota to see what he might think about a stolen Raleigh, but he was elk hunting in Manitoba and unable to help.
“Maybe one of your readers can provide some information.”
Maybe one of my readers actually took your bike and sold it to another one of my readers who decided to return it to you. Sixteen years of guilt can eat at one’s soul.
“I really do want to know.”
And now so do I.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a bike like me
I once was lost, but now I’m found
Was stolen but now am free