Ding Dong, the wicked bike is GONE!
The bike is GONE! Poof! Completely absent! The telephone post with its handy pipe running down the side is bare. Having been entangled in remunerative pursuits in other parts of the city for most of the week, I retreated to my hideout today, Sunday, for the first time since last Tuesday. On my neglected telephone I found a message from one Goody Freed of unknown spelling, calling from the City of Portland’s Bicycle Program.
She said she was going to be out and about tomorrow [which would have been Wensday] and she would come tag the bike if I would call and give her the actual physical address. Obviously I didn’t do that, but evidently she tracked it down on her own from the description I had given the police earlier. My landlord refuses to install the address numbers on the building’s exterior no matter how much he is begged or threatened by its occupants, some of whom would like a simple way to direct their friends to their dwelling. Because they live there, they would enjoy the occasional visitor. I, however, would not. My purpose in withdrawing myself into its cavernous bowels to escape the marauding hordes from the east, west, north and south. This is a hidey-hole where no one can find me. No one.
But never mind about that. She came, she found, she confiscated. Or she tagged, as indicated in the phone message, and had someone else confiscate it. Who knows, and who cares? The nuisance is gone, and my parking spot is free at last.
THINK NOT, however, that I am now going to abandon my quest for the installation of a proper bike rack. I will resume hounding the city for the promised item. My standards are soaring by the minute as I ride around the city and discover all the clever bike racks installed downtown. I want the stainless steel one built in the shape of the Fremont Bridge, with the miniature cars and trucks careening across its two levels.