(Note: It should be stated loud and clear that my bike does not have a name. But in order to personify it in this post, I will refer to it as Bikey.)
As some of you may know, my new job now affords me the privilege of riding my bike to work. And as you can probably imagine, now that I’m no longer the gastropod I once was, I take full advantage of the opportunity even if it means carrying a (heavy) backpack full of clothes and my lunch.
Curiously, there are no bike racks at the office so since starting that job I chain Bikey to the outer perimeter of our patio–it doubles as a hangout for the office’s smokers–in plain view so that I can keep an eye on it throughout the day. After all, this is not exactly some cheap Huffy or Murray bike here. But upon glancing out the window today I noticed that there was a note affixed to Bikey.
“Maybe someone hit it,” a co-worker joked.
I went downstairs to fetch the note and opened it up. It was from somebody in the office with a request to call them at their extension, so I did.
Within a few minutes I was met by the note-leaver, a fellow with a feminine name who very much resembled Barney Rubble in terms of girth and hair style. He went on to tell me that my bike is an eyesore being parked where it is, and that the smokers of the office shouldn’t have to look at it whilst they puff themselves into oblivion.
Barney also went on to tell me that they used to have a bike rack outside the office but once people stopped riding to work, it was removed and he sees no sense in installing a new one for one person (me). Evidently, in exchange for riding their bikes to work, these people all took up smoking and engorging themselves at the local Chinese buffet. All things considered, he requested that I begin parking it in the mailroom so as not to disturb those outside getting their nic-fix.
While I’m cool with keeping Bikey inside, I’m not entirely happy with the way things were presented to me.
My bike. An eyesore. Huh. Let’s examine the evidence.