A little warning for potential thieves - we will find you
Hey! Just to let all of you know, I will be at the Borders Books and Music in Crestview Hills, Kentucky this Saturday from 2pm-4pm. It is in the Crestview Hills Towncenter, located a few miles south of downtown Cincinnati. Hope you all can attend! I also have a copy of my radio interview and I am working on getting it available to listen on here; as of yet, I am still unsuccessful. Now, onto my rant...
__________________________________________
As I was driving into work this morning, I passed a guy on a bicycle, and I thought of something from my past that instantly angered me. Before I go any further though, I suppose I should backtrack a little and give you a little history. ...
I was fifteen, a quick -witted country boy with no means of transportation. My brother Bruce, and all our friends, would work mowing lawns or other odd jobs in order to save our funds to buy something, something all of us so desperately wanted to attain: a 12-speed racing bicycle. All of us were under sixteen years old, where like the rest of the country Kentucky is on par with in getting our drivers license. Normally, we prided ourselves in being at least 8-10 years behind any trends in society or rules of law, but somehow this one slipped through the cracks. Anyway, we all got our bikes, and the list of brands we purchased were like a Tour de France: Nishiki, Raleigh, Cannondale, Trek. Mine was a black Motobecane Mirage, and, even back then, it cost me $260. That was 20 years ago, friends. Nowadays, it would cost $500-$700. I loved that bike - it was totally awesome. We went damned near everywhere on those things, and since we lived in the country, traffic wasn't as much of a concern, so our parents felt safe in letting us go. Plus, it got them off the hook in driving us all over God's creation. Most importantly, we bought them ourselves, with our own money. for a fifteen year-old, that is saying something.
After we got our drivers licenses, the bikes to a back seat, but I still held on to it like it were my child. Everywhere I lived, it was there. Then, on Thanksgiving Day in 1997, I came home from eating dinner with my girlfriend's family, and noticed my basement door opened. My storage shed was ajar, and I got a horrible feeling. I gingerly walked over to see and all my fears were solidified - my bike, my pride and joy, was gone.
I have my suspicions who took this bike, and to this day, if I ever get the chance to perform a beat-down of massive proportions on this certain individual, I will not hesitate to do so. If you are reading this, and you know who you are, karma will catch up with you someday, hopefully in the form of my fist knocking several teeth out. I'm sure all your drugs you have taken in the past have caused extreme softening of your gums, so it really shouldn't take much effort.
Hopefully, none of you have ever had anything stolen, and although it might be a little unhealthy in me still being aggravated by it, it is hard to overcome. Whenever I see someone riding a nice road bibycle, I just can't help but remember all those fun, good teenage memories that my bike gave me; the bike that I worked so damn hard for, and some idiot selfishly took away.
On Thanksgiving, remember.
__________________________________________
As I was driving into work this morning, I passed a guy on a bicycle, and I thought of something from my past that instantly angered me. Before I go any further though, I suppose I should backtrack a little and give you a little history. ...
I was fifteen, a quick -witted country boy with no means of transportation. My brother Bruce, and all our friends, would work mowing lawns or other odd jobs in order to save our funds to buy something, something all of us so desperately wanted to attain: a 12-speed racing bicycle. All of us were under sixteen years old, where like the rest of the country Kentucky is on par with in getting our drivers license. Normally, we prided ourselves in being at least 8-10 years behind any trends in society or rules of law, but somehow this one slipped through the cracks. Anyway, we all got our bikes, and the list of brands we purchased were like a Tour de France: Nishiki, Raleigh, Cannondale, Trek. Mine was a black Motobecane Mirage, and, even back then, it cost me $260. That was 20 years ago, friends. Nowadays, it would cost $500-$700. I loved that bike - it was totally awesome. We went damned near everywhere on those things, and since we lived in the country, traffic wasn't as much of a concern, so our parents felt safe in letting us go. Plus, it got them off the hook in driving us all over God's creation. Most importantly, we bought them ourselves, with our own money. for a fifteen year-old, that is saying something.
After we got our drivers licenses, the bikes to a back seat, but I still held on to it like it were my child. Everywhere I lived, it was there. Then, on Thanksgiving Day in 1997, I came home from eating dinner with my girlfriend's family, and noticed my basement door opened. My storage shed was ajar, and I got a horrible feeling. I gingerly walked over to see and all my fears were solidified - my bike, my pride and joy, was gone.
I have my suspicions who took this bike, and to this day, if I ever get the chance to perform a beat-down of massive proportions on this certain individual, I will not hesitate to do so. If you are reading this, and you know who you are, karma will catch up with you someday, hopefully in the form of my fist knocking several teeth out. I'm sure all your drugs you have taken in the past have caused extreme softening of your gums, so it really shouldn't take much effort.
Hopefully, none of you have ever had anything stolen, and although it might be a little unhealthy in me still being aggravated by it, it is hard to overcome. Whenever I see someone riding a nice road bibycle, I just can't help but remember all those fun, good teenage memories that my bike gave me; the bike that I worked so damn hard for, and some idiot selfishly took away.
On Thanksgiving, remember.
posted by Barry S. at 8:02 AM
