почему кришна синий?

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Picking your favorite bike is like picking your favorite child – you’re not supposed to pick favorites. So now I have my single speed Krishna with drop bars (who may reincarnate as a fixie someday) and my work commuter, farmers market goer, 10 speed gentle black steed, Eberhardt, named after that who rejected societal norms, lived in North Africa, dressed as a man, converted to Islam, and died in a flash flood at the age of 27. Never get in the way of a lady with a mission.

Thursday began warm, sunny, and stunningly perfect. But by the time 5 o’clock rolled in, so had the clouds, the rain, the wind, and the 50 degree temperatures. Instead of waiting for my usual bus, I hopped on a different one that took another route so I could get out of the rain. When the bus was 50 feet away from my stop, it stalled, stuck in traffic. I put my book away, turned off my music, and looked out my window. And lo – there sat my slick black bike, leaning up against a Mexican restaurant. I shoved my way out of the bus and ran to the bike, and looked for the markers to make sure it was mine – broken reflector, residue from where they ripped off my NPR stickers, 19″, and that little bit of brown paper I never ripped off my bike rack was still clinging on for dear life. It was unlocked, so I hopped on and rode it home. And even though it was 3 minutes from my apartment, I would never have found it if it hadn’t been raining, I had taken my usual bus, if the thief wasn’t hungry, or if he wanted ramen instead of tacos, if the bus hadn’t hit traffic, or I had been sitting on the other side of the bus and looked out an opposite window.

Aside from the $400 hole in my checkbook, I was doing okay. New blue bike, new stripey helmet, and new locks. I mourned the loss of my bike, but I’ve had one stolen before – it happens, and you move on. But this time, The Universe stepped in. And I capitalize The Universe because this time, something else was playing at this game. Have I mentioned that retrieving a stolen bike never happens? Well.

Can’t you see the familial resemblance?

I named him Krishna because, well, check it out:

For those of you who don’t live in the city, getting your darling bicycle kidnapped is fairly common. However. However. Finding it again, or having it returned to you, is uncommon. Most uncommon. Actually, you’re more likely to find a pot ‘o’ gold at the end of that grumpy rainbow than you are to find your bike from some punks who jacked it with a saw and liquid nitrogen. Seriously, that’s how the kids are doing it these days. So when my slick black bike (which was double-locked, I will have you know) was lifted from in front of a bar, I threw up my hands, practiced some yogi detachment mantra stuff to make me feel better, and went to a flea market to find my new beauty:

My bike was stolen last week. And I stole it back.

in which karma is the soup du jour

in which karma is the soup du jour « witchin' in the kitchen