If you ride a bicycle in Toronto, at least once in your life you will have it stolen.
The first bike I got when I moved here was lifted the first day I owned it, although I’m probably to blame for using a cheap chain lock. Luckily it was a free bike, and rusted to hell, so I wasn’t too sad, although it was not the last one to get stolen.
More common in my life has been drunk frat boys (I’m assuming that’s who they are) kicking the shit out of my chariot when I’ve made the mistake of locking it near the club district. What is it about bikes that inspires such anger in drunk dudes?
Anyway, back to the story…
A month or so ago I decided that I’d had enough of riding my little folding bike with the miniature tires. Sure, it was cute, but having to pedal like a madman just to get to a mild cruising speed was wearing thin, and leaving it out all winter hadn’t been kind to the poor thing.
On my dad’s recommendation, I took it down to Parts Unknown (216 Augusta in Kensington Market) and traded it in on a great vintage Supercycle, and quickly rediscovered the joys of riding fast. Life with my new bike was great, until one afternoon I discovered a handwritten note stuck in my helmet.
“To the owner of this bike. I have some interesting news for you. This is actually my bike. It was stolen from me about a month ago.”
The letter went on to explain that it had been a gift from his girlfriend and had lots of sentimental value, and he was willing to offer a reward. While I doubted he’d be able to give me enough money to buy a new bike, I didn’t really feel comfortable ignoring it, so I called him up.
After a couple weeks of phone tag, we finally connected, and he was able to provide enough detail that I didn’t doubt his story. But what to do? If I give him the bike outright, I no longer have a way of getting to work (I’m sorry, the Queen streetcar is just too slow, unless I’m avoiding rain and snow).
Bringing it back to the shop didn’t seem like an ideal solution either, as I’d heard lots of horror stories from folks who found their missing wheels at Igor Kenk’s infamous shop and still left empty handed. Parts Unknown seemed equally chaotic and strange – they don’t even have electricity, and are located in a back alley.
Turns out I had nothing to worry about. When the bike shop heard my story, they were positively mortified.
“First of all, whenever anything like this happens we will do our best to make it right. Second of all, we don’t buy bikes from strangers – there are only a small number of guys who supply us, and we know them all. Whoever it was will be hearing from us.”
They set me up with another vintage Canadian Tire bike, and this one is actually better than the one I ended up with before. Maybe it would have been better to involve the police, but considering how gracious the Parts Unknown guys were, I think I made the right call letting them deal with the bike thief.
Of course if my new bike ends up with a similar note attached to it someday, I’ll probably be singing a different tune.
