It was the RAD-est BMX racer ever! It was smoke silver with red pads and black mag wheels. It arrived one Christmas. 1984. No, maybe 1983. Yeah, 1983! Either way, the bike was my most precious possession. For the first time, I had something other kids didn’t. They envied it and I was proud.
I took the bike to the pits on Sunset Ave. I raced it behind the ALCO. Rode it home from school everyday and went to friends’ houses on the weekends. For an eleven year old boy, it was the closest thing to a car that any sixteen-year-old would envy. It gave me freedom to ride to the Five and Dime to buy gum for only a penny. Blazed through empty fields on dusty dirt trails. Popped curbs around Roswell High School and hopped down the steps in the back of the school. I would peddle as fast as I could through the Fire Lane and shoot out into the parking lot by the apartment complex we lived in.
One Sunday in 1984, it would be taken from me. It would haunt my days and fueled my nightmares.
Riding back from CB’s house one Sunday afternoon, unknown to me, I was being followed. My care free attitude and naïve love for life at eleven. I rode home like any other: down Roswell High’s fire lane, through the lot, across Penn Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I circled around the end of the building and up on the sidewalk, weaved through the gate and popped the kickstand. I opened the sliding glass door to find my mother on the couch watching some old western on KCAL.
I was inside no more than a few minutes. Maybe only 2 minutes. My mother was asking if I wanted to go over to Tastee Freeze and get a couple Banana Splits. The phone rang. It was a guy that my mother worked with and happened to live six apartments down. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Danny. Danny was asking if I knew where my bike was. He spoke really fast. He stated he saw me ride home a few minutes earlier. My mother asked me to get my bike. Danny is talking hurriedly saying he’s looking at two Hispanic men loading what appears to be my bike into their late model Chevy Monte Carlo. I pull the curtains back to find my bike GONE! Someone took my bike! My mother panicked. She hung up the phone but not before Danny said he was calling 911.
I ran outside, looking for my bike. Who would have done this? Tears rolled down my face. My mother tried to calm me down. Within minutes, a police car sat in front of our apartment. Danny was talking to them. The police officer was talking on the radio. Danny had given the police not only the car description but the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The officer took the report and within 15 minutes had the suspects. My heart raced. Thank God! My bike was found! I looked to the officer with eager anticipation. He shook his head as the other officer on the radio stated, “negative on silver BMX bike.” Where is my bike? What did the assholes do with it? (I don’t think I was using that language in my 11-year-old mind but I will say I was.) Within minutes, these dildo-heads had stolen my bike and ditched it somewhere. My sorrow and anger returned. The officer left stating they would continue to search the area looking for my bike.
Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I never saw the bike again. I still, to this day, wish I could find those dipshits and punch them in the face until my knuckles bleed. Those shit-eaters not only stole but they scarred a little boy’s view of the world. Those days after it was stolen, my mind raced. What could have I done differently? Should I have brought it inside? Or just left the curtains open to the patio. I internalized the trauma with daydreams of Batman and Robin swinging down to stop the thieves. I envisioned myself as a dark vigilante catching them in the act and throwing ninja stars into their chest and arms. As the years went on, I healed. But I still think about that bike and that day, even 27 years later. And I still wish I could knee the little pig fuckers in the balls!!
