I steered over to the public washroom, a freestanding hub of entrances and exits, to lean my bike against the cement-block wall. A bearded man standing under his ball cap gave me a dentist-approved smile. I micro-stepped toward him and said, “I forgot my lock.” He nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on your bike.” When I entered the building he stood beside my bike.

Over a million bicycles not reported stolen get stolen annually.
That’s a million owner-improved bikes, permanently disappeared.
Some with custom-fitted saddles.
Upgraded pedals and wheels.
Hi-visibility rear-light for safety.
Bottle cages and bell.
Signature rock chip on the down tube, painted steady-handed blue.
Lucky-Cat stem cap, a birthday present received last year.

I exited the washroom. The bearded man twisted the brim of his ball cap over the back of his unsmiling neck. He straddled my bike, hunched forward and gripped the handlebars. I yelled and he yelled. “My bike!”

On the pedals he stomped and angled my speeding bike between the public washroom and a timber-framed pond. His scum-water reflection flew from my pointing-pointlessly finger and disappeared behind a hedge.

I ran until my feet cemented to the bike path in two furious exclamations. One ear turned toward the faint distant whirring of my bike’s flywheel before leaning deeper into unwelcome silence. The path showed my abandoned shadow rudely contorting: the form resembled a cyclist without a bike.

At my back, an unsympathetic slap slapped the water. I defensively turned. A fetching-stick wagged the pond’s middle before it surrendered to the splash and sputter of a retriever dog’s jump. When the fetched-stick’s dog bounded to its dryland master, the pond-water bunted against unyielding edges, and I remembered. My bike!

Stepping forward, my face facing the freestanding building. I read the posted sign: “Please use the other entrance.” The sign arrowed where a bearded man stood. Still beside a bike.

Laurel Smith is a writer whose publications include Monsoon poems (Cyberwit), The Right Red: From Viewer to Learner (University of Calgary), and several magazine reviews of authors and artists. Writing is an expansion of Laurel’s visual art practice.