Mar 13, 2008
By Rupert Common
Bike theft in Montreal is more rampant than leprosy in leper colonies. The man who sold me my first stolen bike explicitly told me that he robbed someone. He said that he stole it from somewhere near Atwater. It’s a pretty sweet bike; it has dual suspension, which is great for jumping off curbs and rolling up next to artsy chicks that have baskets attached to their rides.Then again, I don’t really care to use my bike to do tricks; most people that mountain bike after age 15 have obscenely hair legs and like stickers way too much.
As it stands, my current bike is the second one that I have purchased through illegal means. The process is straightforward. A bikeless bi-ped walks the streets of Montreal and sees an unkempt fellow with a shiny bike. The unkempt man approaches the bikeless human and says something like, “Do you want this bike, man?” The person responds “Yeah dude, how much?” to which our street merchant replies, “$25.” The cheap student pauses, looks left to right, looks the man up and down, and thinks to himself “This bike is stolen, but I don’t care, so I should pay this man, pronto, then peace the scene and spray-paint the frame yellow.”
Upon buying the bike, I did not realize that I had entered a virulent cycle of theft. What I did realize was that I had just experienced my first trip to the “Black Market,” and felt pretty good about it. Contrary to popular belief, the “Black Market” is not a single place in which Sumerian clerks barter human lungs and hollow-tips. You may be shocked to learn that the “Black Market” is actually a term applied to the world-wide underground economy of prohibited goods and services. Whatever though, I’m pretty sure there are Black Markets that roll through towns on Sundays and provide tax free goods at low, low prices. Where else would I have bought that pukka shell necklace for my soul-mate?
A few months ago, karma caught up to me when a thief nabbed my roommate’s bike, along with the front wheel of my own bicycle. I had also made the mistake of buying a helmet. I thought that I could justify my buying of the thing because “I didn’t care if I looked like a complete loser,” but it turns out that I do. The combination of the recent thefts and my unwearable helmet made me decide to give up the whole bike game.
Almighty Zeus had other plans for me. The very week I retired from cycling, a green bike appeared on the curb next to my house. Much like I would do to an abandoned child, I abducted the bike, and took off its wheel. With the help of my Al Borland-like roommate, I was back in action, rolling to school happily for the rest of fall.
Despite fate spinning me a wonderful polypropylene Tour De France shirt, the Montreal winter proved fatal for my bicycle, although it was not mangled into street-side modern art by ruthless snow removal machines, my bike became rusted and non-functioning from the snow. Once again, however, a nomadic street person approached me with a bargain, and within a week of my loss, I rode home on an even better bicycle. Unfortunately, someone stole the seat. Who steals a seat? The only explanation that I can think of is that they just want to smell it. Known as “snarfing,” the act of smelling seats has its roots in the 1950s, when old-ass men would loiter around the local candy shoppe or swimming hole, only to inhale the butt odours from the warm seats of young lasses.
After the disheartening experience of losing my seat, I was forced to ride without one. I was initially okay with this – standing up when you ride looks doper anyways – but my quads would get sore, and one time I sat down and was nearly perforated. Not wanting to sustain any lasting damage to my anal tissue, I took the seat from my old, ruined bike, and replaced the one now being smelled. I then partook in some theft of my own. This involved robbing my ex-roommate’s stolen bike – now being stored at my apartment – of its gel cover, which makes sitting down much more pleasurable. I placed this cushy accessory onto my new bike with dual suspension. All was fine, until my stolen seat cover got stolen. Coincidentally, the theft occurred while me and the gang were playing some baseball in the sandlot and drinking soda pops. I couldn’t quite see, but a shady looking gentleman seemed to be freebasing something in the dark recesses of a nearby alley. My gut tells me he was snarfing.
Just the other night, I was walking up Milton Street with some friends and a man offered to sell us a bike. Although he claimed that he “did not steal it,” we all knew that he did. Upon our refusal, he offered us an empty McGill backpack. It was the kind that kids in Engineering buy at the bookstore, you know, with special pouches for floppy discs and chess pieces.
Walking home alone with my new backpack, I witnessed a girl riding her bike through campus in the early hours of the morning. Upon making a left turn, she signaled with her hand. No traffic was around, and I was the sole spectator. At first I was like, “What a square,” but then I remembered that I often practice signaling, just so that when the time comes I can be confident. So I guess it’s not a big deal.