Missing: One Blissful Shiny Blue Girl Bike

"How do donuts sound?" I whispered to Madeleine this morning as we snuggled in bed, just our faces showing over the covers. "Great!" she whispered back, eyes shining. I tried to entice her to come with me to the store, but she smiled her decline. "Why don't I just stay here in bed until you get back?"

I pull on yesterday's jeans, Dave's yummy gray sweater and stumble down the stairs and out the back door to my bike. Only my bike isn't there.

I'm in the habit of locking it up since things get stolen in my neighborhood all the time, but I must have forgotten the night I rode back from Addis Ababa with our takeout dinner. Damn. I feel like someone cut my right arm off and then took a little piece of my heart while they were at it.

I ride my bike like some people practice religionevery day, with all my heart.

I walked into Takoma Bikes on a lovely Saturday last spring, thinking I would just look at bikes. I had my first big paycheck from a writing job and I wanted to spend it ceremoniously. I was thinking I might buy a cheap mountain bike for a $150 bucks and send the rest to bills.

One glance around the bike shop and I realized that I clearly had no idea what a good bike costs. I was about to walk out when this beauty caught my eye. Shiny, sparkly blue, big squishy tires. It was the girliest bike I had ever laid eyes on. I felt pangs of old age and immediate guilt about leaving the potential fitness of my former mountain bike days behind, but I asked the cool biker sales guy about it anyway, feeling all shy.

"I don't know what it is. Chicks just dig that bike. I can't keep 'em in the store." It was the best thing he could have said. I wasn't old, no sirree. I was just one of the chicks who thought this bike was the best thing ever. After an hour long walk around Takoma, speed-dialing various sisters in hopes of finding someone to help me justify such a decadent purchase, I took the first money I ever made as writer and became the proud owner of the K2:Nine Breeze. I've never been so happy in my life.

My joy must have been apparent to the entire universe because when I rode my shiny new bike up and down the streets of Silver Spring that Saturday afternoon, it seemed to me that all the drivers yielded the right-of-way with good humor usually reserved for puppies and pre-schoolers. I thought it must just be me, projecting my happiness on everyone I met, but then on the way back home up the hill, an older African gentleman stopped working in his yard to smile and admire. "So you got a new bike!" he said in a dignified French accent, waving me on my way. I positively sparkled.

From that day on, I used every excuse imaginable to ride my bike. I'd go up and down my street, sometimes a couple of times a day, running every kind of errand, waving to neighbors along the way. I was so happy. To make the whole thing more miraculous, almost everytime I rode my bike, the guys out and about in my neighborhood would see me coming and nod their approval.

The first time it happened, I didn't know what to do. I was sitting on my bike, waiting for the light to turn. "Looking good!" some cute hip hop looking guy in a car called out with a nod. "Who, me?" my face asked as I looked all around. "Yeah, you, babyon the bike!" he said laughing. I was so thankful in my severe housewifery state to still be noticed by random men on the street, I could have kissed him. And someone said something almost everyday! Like the adorable man with the perfect dreads who said, "I'm sorry, baby" when I almost ran into him or the tall skinny kid who called out smiling, "Girl! I LIKE your BIKE!" as I went zooming past. Even the women my age looked at me in a kind of wonder. "Could I do that?" their eyes asked, taking in my childlike delight.

I decided the bike was magic. Whole sentences came to me on that bike. It was the equivalent of five good soaks in the tub, a dinner at a fine restaurant and lying perfectly still in tall grass looking at a clear blue sky. Riding that bike felt like perfect poetry.

"Why don't you go to the police station?" Dave says gently, knowing how terrible I feel about forgetting to lock it up. "You shouldn't have to lock something on your own patio, babe. Just go. Maybe they can help."

I drive the streets for awhile first, wondering who could have taken it and why. Usually when something gets stolen, I think of it as some kind of forced sharing. Like you needed something really bad, and that if I just knew the reason I would have given it to you myself first. Who would have I have given my bike to? I ask myself, as I wander up and down our alleys, looking for any sign of my shiny blue happiness.

Maybe I would be willing to give it to someone who needed to remember what life was like in sixth grade before everything fell apart. Or someone with a kid who hasn't smiled in forever. Or maybe someone who saw me riding my bike and who got attached to the idea that everything would work outif only they could ride my bike just one time and feel for one second that happy, that free.

Story By Jen Lemen.

A bit about Jen:when jen lemen isn't wandering the streets looking for her long lost bike, you can find her making art (jenlemen.etsy.com) or telling stories (www.jenlemen.com) from her home in silver spring, maryland.