One only need look at this massive bike parking garage in Amsterdam to understand how ubiquitous the bicycle is to Dutch culture. And even though you see all sorts of bikes on the streets, from high-end 5000 euro racing bikes to 5 euro beat-up granny fiets, they take each and every one very seriously. It is no coincidence that we frequently hear from the older generations that one of the things that they remember the most about the Nazi occupation back in 1942 was the confiscation of their bicycles.
But as Americans, it was never a particularly big concern to us that Beth has already had two bikes stolen in the last five years. She knows that she asked for it both times, once leaving it unlocked in the front garden and another time leaving it at the central rail station over a weekend. We always chuckled when our friends gave us great condolences on each loss, as if it were a child, and spoke about how those awful people (bike thieves) should be tarred, feathered, and strung up on the city square like in the good old days.
So with that background now given for context, you will understand that it was with great trepidation, and genuine fear, that I undertook a covert operation last month to get Beth a new bike. Here’s how it went down…
After her last bike was stolen, we decided to buy her a used piece-o-shit that we thought no one could ever possibly want to steal. After all, I have left mine unlocked overnight at the train station on more than one occasion and no one has shown any interest in nicking it. My bike is an extremely ugly sucker, with torn saddle bags, chipped paint, and duck-tapped fenders.
So we went the to the used bike shop and she tried out a few. We were in a hurry because of a dinner engagement, so she just chose the ugliest bike she could find. The problem was that, unlike my comfortable piece-o-shit, her ugly bike turned out to be a real lemon. The gears didn’t work properly, the front rim had sharp spot that punctured three tires in four days and she could barely keep up with me even on a simple grocery run. All this luxury for only 175 euros. And to top it off, there was no warranty or guarantee on used bikes. We had been screwed.
About three weeks (and numerous inner-tubes) later, I noticed a bike pushed into the weeds in the local dog park – where I walk every day, twice a day and know just about everyone else who walks there. At first, I thought that some kids had left it there while they were running around the park. But on the second day when I saw that the bike was still there, I nonchalantly walked over toward the weeds, pretending to pick up a mess left by Sage. As I got closer to the bike, I could see that it was a nice one. I scanned the park-- no one was watching me, so I took a chance and lifted the bike up to get a better look at it. It was in perfect condition! None of the frame was bent and the tires even still had air in them. And it looked about Beth’s size. The bike was locked, so it was pretty obvious that some drunken teen-agers had stolen it over the weekend, locked it, ditched it in the weeds and flung the key into the pond.
A Dutch person would have come to this same conclusion. But their reaction would have been very different. They would have called the police who would have come, reviewed the “scene” then taken the bike back to the station for cataloging. If by chance someone could claim it (by serial number), they would get their bike back. If not, well then it would go up for auction with the 100’s of others every month and the police would make a little profit.
I saw it differently. For me, it was an opportunity to score Beth a new bike.
On the third day, the bike was still there. So I stayed up later than usual and walked by myself to the park after dark. It was 23.30 on a weeknight, so the chances of seeing anyone were minimal. It’s Haarlem, not Amsteram. I snuck over to the weeds and pulled the bike out. For those of you who don’t know, the bike locks here in Holland are attached to the back forks and then engage around the back tire between the spokes. This keeps the bike from moving. So in order to get the thing home, I had to lift the back of the bike and half carry it the four blocks to my house. Not something that can really be done without being pretty obvious about your intentions. The only excuse is “I lost my key” which I kept running through my head in Dutch in case I had to say it.
Just as I was exiting the park, I ran into an older man walking his two Jack Russels. I didn’t know him well, but we have exchanged many pleasantries in the park. He recognized me immediately and asked where Sage was, eyeing me cautiously with the obviously locked bike. My heart was racing and I was sure that I’d get an accusatory question about the bike, but luckily, he let me off after I said that Sage was sick…never underestimate the sympathy of other dog lovers. I was able to get the thing home without further encounter and secreted into my back yard where I hid it under the outdoor table. I didn’t sleep very well that night as I kept dreaming of people pounding on my door and envisioning tomorrow’s headlines – “Citizen alert! Foreign scumbag caught in North Haarlem as mastermind for huge bike theft ring!”
The next day, I set to the task of getting the lock off the bike. The thick steel half-circle locking component would take me hours to hack through with my little saw, so I started with the thinner, metal plated lock housing. It only took about 10 minutes before I had cut enough to jam a stout screw driver into the slot and bend the housing out around the frame. Five minutes later, the wheel was spinning freely.
But the bike still looked stolen (even though, technically, I wasn’t the one who stole it). So I started breaking down components from Beth’s old bike – Seat, saddle bags, lights and moving them over the new bike. I finished it off with a few rounds of duck-tape to hide the brand name and some of the coloring. The yard looked like a chop shop, with bike parts and tools scattered everywhere. But at 13.00 in the afternoon, it was finally reassembled and I was feeling confident enough to have Beth give it a test run. It fit her surprisingly well, everything worked perfectly, and it was completely unrecognizable. She loved it!
Maybe I’ve finally found my true calling…
Which one of these kids is thinking, ”I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something…”