I headed over to read Kent Peterson's blog. He was up to April 28th of his Bike 30 Days challenge, which began April 1st.
Click here to go to Kent's Blog--> Kent's Bike Blog
Sidebar Rant: I hate BLOG posting order. It's all backwards!! There's no index. Unless you read a blog everyday where do you start? So let me help: Scroll down to April 1st of Kent's blog and read backwards!!! Okay...scroll UP.
I'm living in Johannesburg where road cycling is nutz. Kent lives in Issaquah Washington which looks to be an idyllic place to bike. So here's what I will do: I will bike each day for the next 30 days and see to where can I bike safely from 235 Lonehill "surrounded by high walls topped with electric wire and two gates to go through for security" Estate in Fourways, Johannesburg, Sud Afrika.
Day 1 is May Day.
Let the 30 days commence.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Just A Bike
On the morning of April 15th, I had one of those "this can’t be happening" moments. As I opened the interior house door to the garage, my self said: "Self, the garage door is open." That’s weird. Glancing over where my bike should be, there was no bike. My mind kept saying: "There is supposed to be a yellow modified for travel V-Rex leaning against the work bench." My self kept saying "It’s not there." My mind: "Are you sure? Look again."
No matter how many times I looked my bike was stolen. Gone. It just isn’t there.
Told myself: "It’s just a bike."
With a kick in my gut feeling all day I did the stolen bike thing:
Called police to file a police report
Printed out flyers with a pic to all bike stores.
Called pawn shops.
Posted flyers along the typical cycling paths.
Kept looking where my bike was hoping it would magically appear.
Kept telling myself: "It’s just a bike."
All day long whenever that empty feeling punched me in the gut: "It's just a bike."
Wait a minute. I’ve had this bike for over twelve years. Then I started remembering.
It’s not just a bike. It was my Conestoga Wagon on Ragbrai ferrying me from the Missouri River to the Mississippi River. Okay, so Conestoga wagons went from east to west. Small details. I crossed the expanse of Iowa on my bike passing cornfields, alfalfa fields, and easily recognizable from a long way off hog farms. It blazed trails for me.
It’s not just a bike. In North Dakota it was my trusty horse galloping by fertile farmlands and wheat crops and across rolling grasslands. It showed me the big sky, the Red River Valley and the Drift Prarie.
It’s not just a bike. In New York, it was my packet boat and I was the horse power trudging along passing locks and lift bridges. It helped me explore old canal side towns, including the birthplace of the Colt revolver, something I’d love to show right now to the bike thief.
It’s not just a bike. Living in Qatar it was my Dromedary Taxi, taking me across the desert and showing me the Khor al Adaid ("Inland Sea") along the Persian Gulf.
It’s not just a bike. In Shanghai, it was my own Orient Express. Small bother that the Orient Express never went to Shanghai, because the Orient Express has come to symbolize intrigue and luxury travel. Hey, it’s a (okay..it was) a recumbent and trust me, that’s luxurious when cycling 200kms: no pain.
It’s not just a bike. When I was working in Florida it was my Ponce DeLeon exploration ship, taking me up and down the eastern coast in search of my own fountain of youth. Yes, cycling keeps the kid in ya. No question.
One thing is for sure: It's not "just a bike".
No matter how many times I looked my bike was stolen. Gone. It just isn’t there.
Told myself: "It’s just a bike."
With a kick in my gut feeling all day I did the stolen bike thing:
Called police to file a police report
Printed out flyers with a pic to all bike stores.
Called pawn shops.
Posted flyers along the typical cycling paths.
Kept looking where my bike was hoping it would magically appear.
Kept telling myself: "It’s just a bike."
All day long whenever that empty feeling punched me in the gut: "It's just a bike."
Wait a minute. I’ve had this bike for over twelve years. Then I started remembering.
It’s not just a bike. It was my Conestoga Wagon on Ragbrai ferrying me from the Missouri River to the Mississippi River. Okay, so Conestoga wagons went from east to west. Small details. I crossed the expanse of Iowa on my bike passing cornfields, alfalfa fields, and easily recognizable from a long way off hog farms. It blazed trails for me.
It’s not just a bike. In North Dakota it was my trusty horse galloping by fertile farmlands and wheat crops and across rolling grasslands. It showed me the big sky, the Red River Valley and the Drift Prarie.
It’s not just a bike. In New York, it was my packet boat and I was the horse power trudging along passing locks and lift bridges. It helped me explore old canal side towns, including the birthplace of the Colt revolver, something I’d love to show right now to the bike thief.
It’s not just a bike. Living in Qatar it was my Dromedary Taxi, taking me across the desert and showing me the Khor al Adaid ("Inland Sea") along the Persian Gulf.
It’s not just a bike. In Shanghai, it was my own Orient Express. Small bother that the Orient Express never went to Shanghai, because the Orient Express has come to symbolize intrigue and luxury travel. Hey, it’s a (okay..it was) a recumbent and trust me, that’s luxurious when cycling 200kms: no pain.
It’s not just a bike. When I was working in Florida it was my Ponce DeLeon exploration ship, taking me up and down the eastern coast in search of my own fountain of youth. Yes, cycling keeps the kid in ya. No question.
One thing is for sure: It's not "just a bike".
Stolen Bike: Miami FL April 14, 2011
This be the stolen bike. Hopefully someone will see it and email me at JKeenan0407 AT yahoo DOT com.
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