The day my mirth stood still.

This is a continuation of “Tales of the Western Flyer“ below)

“NO,” I told myself out loud. And then to the other students passing by I said, “I will not sleep until I find him, and I also swear not to eat until he is found!” They did not understand, but I paid no mind to them. I was quickened; I roused my innards and girded my intellect. Then I thought, “Well, at least for three hours I will not sleep. And I will not eat for one hour--not until he is found!”
I stirred up my comrades--the men of Gott Hall 1st floor--and we quickly began our important search.
Speeding around in desperate scans of the campus bike racks, we presently had no success in our search. Seven o’clock turned to eight o’clock, eight o‘clock into eight-fifteen, and eight-fifteen into seven seconds past eight-fifteen. If the bike was to be found, it was certainly not this way. Instadicatively, (a new word which I would soon gain the credit for coining) I was overdue for a meal, and I needed meat-energy to keep my wits about me.
I called campus security. This attempt was unfruitful for their incompetence. The conversation went thus:
“SBU security, how can I help you--”
“Where is my bike!” I demanded.
A pause…
“Well, is your bike missing, or--”
“You fool! We’ve no time for this. If I’m calling about my missing bike, why would you ask if it’s missing?”
“Well, are--”
“Never mind that now. Listen, chap: it’s name is the Western Flyer, but it will also respond to its initials, WTF, it is approximately 1.2 meters in height, 22 kilograms in mass, it has rugged action, and,”
“Listen, are you an SBU student?”
Obviously I was getting nowhere. Angrily, I hung up the phone, not before saying, “You ineffectual kittiwake! Mark Grabowski shall hear of this!”
I returned to the dorm, tired and frustrated, and said to the new office worker, whom I had not met before, “Woe upon woe has befallen me!” And I laid my head upon her shoulder and began to cry.

Tales of the Western Flyer

Throughout my college years, and my now beginning post grad years, a certain loyal steed has stood by my side through many perils. This red, metallic mare has indeed earned its stripes. Its core: sheer beauty. Its form: a bicycle. Its name: The Western Flyer. These are its true tales.
It all started in the 2004 Bolivar annual garage sales. I was looking for a bike for which to impress girls with my riding. Several hours into my search, things were looking down, for no bike had been found which could stand the test. Then, I saw her: a beautiful woman. I quickly ignored her and continued with my important search for a bike. Then, I saw it: a black squirrel, infamous in Bolivar. I quickly ignored this as well, continuing on. Finally, I stumbled upon him: a red and meek-looking bike, hidden in the corner of the garage of a particular sale. Rubbing off some dust from its side, I saw some writing: “The Western Flyer .” Remembering my lessons from Indiana Jones, I thought it would be wise to choose the most humble chalice. It was the one.
“How much for this bike!” I proclaimed loudly to no one in particular, and without direction.
“Oh, you don’t want that bike. Choose some of the newer, shinier bikes over there,” replied a large and burly man, pointing to some better-looking bikes.
Knowing that these shiny bikes, as did the beautiful cups in Indiana Jones, would cause my body to age instantly, turn into skeleton, and eventually dust, I persisted. “No, this one must do. Name your price,” I demanded.
“Alright, 20 bucks.”
“Ok. Uh, is it okay if I gave you 15? It’s alright if not, but, I just thought I’d see, you know, just, ” I demanded in a manly fashion.
“Alright, 15.”
Thus it was mine.
I rode the thing home, testing its abilities and limits. It was missing its right gear-shifter. It also had letters written on one side spelling, “Rugged Action.” I knew that this was to be a wild stallion, one which would not want to be tamed. So I never tried.
I let it be wild, just like in the John Eldridge books that everyone had been talking about. And it was reckless, and it was good.
Until that day.
Riding up to the SBU music building one day, intending to practice piano, (a method I use for impressing girls) I told the Western Flyer, “Today, I do not lock you; I trust thee.” I thus left him unlocked and went inside for times of practice, really without a worry. Time had grown trust in our relationship, and I knew that I didn’t need to tie him up for him to stay put. But, unfortunately, I forgot to factor in the human element.
Later, coming out of the music building, I casually looked for my sweet ride among the bike racks. Not seeing it, a sudden panic came over me--where is he? Is this the right bike rack? If I were to die today, do I know for certain where I would go? (ok, that last one didn’t cross my mind). I started scanning the bike racks for any sign. Then, despair--I knew it was done. He was stolen. I tore my clothing and cried out, knowing that my negligence had resulted in such an act.

To be continued???