Missing the Basketmobile

Two weeks ago, we were working our asses off. My primary joy in each day was waking up and cycling to our new office, and at the end of the day getting on the basketmobile and cycling home.  I love biking in the morning when the tree-lined streets are dappled with sun and the birds are singing, and again late at night when the empty streets are dark and the air is thick and heavy.

After working 10-12 hour days, even in my great new office, it was sheer joy to open the door, see my bike and know I had a

refreshing bike home to clear my mind and remind me the world a wonderful place.

So I was a little stunned when I walked to the bike post I had locked the basketmobile.  I picked up the lock, still locked around the post, and the helmet, still locked onto the lock, and stared at it. 

Where was my bike?

I looked up the street to Gerry as if, magically, he had teleported the bike out of the lock as some sort of gag or prank. He just stared back. 

That’s when it sunk in.

Someone had stolen the Basketmobile, my bike.  My lovely, lovely, bike.

I spent the better part of a week grieving.  Sounds silly I know, but I had had her for 16 years. She had driven me to work at Nortel and Phoneworks.  She’d been to a myriad of street festivals. She had been my transportation when I started my first business. She’d even delivered books to bookstores all over Toronto.

Now I have to replace her and that sucks!