It cost me twenty dollars. I parked that bike all over the IC for three years and never once locked it. Never even thought about locking it. Last night, you saw it parked in front of the Java House and took it. How brave! How clever of you! Scratched to hell, rusted handlebars, slow leaks in both worn tires, only one brake worked -- it is a piece of junk, but it was mine. My mother always says we are not punished for our sins, but by our sins, which maybe doesn't seem to apply very well here, because now you are riding my bike around and I'm not, but the point is, the bike will never feel right to you, no matter how much you pretend it's yours. You will never feel 100% great riding that bike. Your eyes will be distracted, on the lookout for me! And the bike will never truly relax under your -- I hope -- fat, ugly ass, because it will always yearn for mine. Perhaps it or your guilty, imperfect attention will throw you just as a bus barrels by. Watch out.
You took a bit of the shine off Iowa City for me. Now I am suspicious of every bicyclist that passes by. I scrutinized with a sweaty scowl every bike I saw as I trudged home last night. This is a small town. I will know that bike when I see it, no matter how you try and disguise it, and when I do ... I will triumphantly reclaim it -- unless you lock it. A lock will cost you more than the bike cost me. You couldn't be bothered to find your own twenty-dollar bike, and if you shell out the cash for the lock, I hope the irony of that action chips away further at your puny, charcoal heart.