One ugly bike

   LIFE'S OUTTAKES    By Daris HowardGazette Contributor
            Since I had my bike stolen, and didn’t have a lot of money to buy another one, I was reduced to hunting for a used one. People I knew tried to help scare one up, talking to everyone they knew. Finally, one day, a lady called me.
            “I understand you are looking for a cheap bike.” When I told her I was, she continued. “I do believe I have an old one out in my shed. I would give you a really good deal on it.”
            The young man I worked with, Martin, made the nearly two mile trek over to her house with me. When we arrived, the lady led us out to her old shed. We helped her move piles of mostly useless junk that were stacked to the ceiling. We finally found the bike deep in the farthest corner.
            Dragging it out into the light, I was stunned. It was probably the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my life. It was a girl’s three speed, and was a remnant from the 60's. It looked like it had been painted by someone who was high on something. Add to that the grime that embellished it, and it was absolutely ghastly.
            “How much do you want for it?” I asked.
            The lady looked at me, as if sizing up how much of a sucker I was. “Six bucks,” she replied.
            “Let me see how it runs,” I said.
            I turned it over and turned the crank. The wheel started to roll faster and faster. I tried to switch gears, but the cable was stuck, frozen solid with rust. It was locked in third gear, but it worked, and it worked well.
            “I’ll take it,” I said.
            Martin looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I dug into my pocket and pulled out what dollar bills I had, and then I counted change in dimes and quarters until I had enough.
            As we walked away, with me dragging the bike, Martin rolled his eyes. “I have only one request.”
            “What’s that?” I asked.
            “That bike is so ugly I want you to always ride a hundred yards apart from me so no one knows I know you.”
            “It’s not that bad,” I said.
            “It is that bad,” Martin retorted.
            He suggested we stop by the store and get me a bike lock. “A bike lock?” I scoffed. “Are you crazy? A lock costs $10, and the bike only cost $6.”
            “Well, when you get your bike stolen, you can only blame yourself,” he said.
            Once I got my bike home, I took some WD40 and sprayed it on all of the moving parts. I tested the bike and it rolled smoothly, though it was hard to start out in third gear. I took a rag and cleaned off the old dust and grime it had picked up from the shed, and the 60's paint job showed even more.
            “You should have left the grime on it,” Martin commented. “It actually looked better that way.”
            That evening we went to the hospital to visit a friend. I just flopped my bike against the fence, and then I waited for Martin, who spent 15 minutes locking his to a solid post. Martin grinned smugly at me when he finished. “At least one of us will still have a bike when we come out.”
            We went in, had our visit, and when we came out, we had a surprise. Martin’s bike was stripped to the frame. The pedals, the racks, the handle bars, and everything that wasn’t secured by the bike lock was gone.
            Next to Martin’s bike skeleton sat my bike, still against the fence, still where I left it, still totally untouched. Martin stood there in shock.
            “You were right,” I teased. “One bike is still here.”
            Martin nearly choked. “I can’t believe it. I never thought there could be a bike that was so ugly that the thieves wouldn’t even want it, but I guess there finally is.”
            And thus I had solved my bike theft problem.

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)