I successfully stole a bike once so, I thought I’d give it another shot. I never
would’ve guessed however that stealing a bicycle from a thief would be more
difficult than stealing from a policeman.
Yes, from a policeman. My mother also didn’t believe me until she
received a phone call from the Police six months after
I had told her the truth. Just a courtesy call,
“Good
Morning, this is Sergeant Plodd calling from Northbridge Police, may I speak to
Katherine please?”
“I’m
sorry she’s living in Sydney now, may I be of assistance?”
“I’m
just calling to check if Katherine has had no further trouble with her bicycle
that was stolen.” He continued.
“Ah no,
no trouble at all thank you officer.” Replied my astonished mother.
I’ll explain how I pulled it off so
easily, excessive amounts of luck were on my side that day.
I
finished work at the State Library at 5.30pm as I did every Saturday during my
undergraduate years. I was off to the Brass Monkey Hotel to drink and play
scrabble on the upstairs Chesterfields with my friends. Forecasting my
drunkenness, I left my bicycle locked up outside the library. The following day
I walked to work at the library finding my bike had been stolen. Why would
anyone in their right mind steal this crappy bike? To an
impoverished student however, it was an immensely valuable asset, especially
as I was madly saving $5000 to participate in the Australian Youth Orchestra’s tour of the Americas.
Infuriated I called the police to report the heinous crime. The
policeman at the end of the phone diligently took the details; blue bike with
gears and a green lock, reminding me for a third time
that stolen bikes never find their rightful owners.
Fifteen
minutes before the end of my shift the phone at my desk rang for the first time in my library career.
"Hello?" I answered
enquiringly. "Hello Miss Walpole, I’d like you to come down to the station as a
bicycle fitting your bicycle’s description has just been handed in."
I don’t ever recall praying in my life, but if I had, it
had just paid off. I made myself known on arrival keen to
identify my bicycle. I heard a bike being wheeled from out the back, it
went tick tick tick as the precisely tuned mechanics heralded its arrival. My
heart sank, precision was the last word to describe my bike. How will I cope
without my bike? As I looked at the brand new blue 10 speed racer with a green
lock, the policeman said,
“Is this your bike?” I nearly fell backwards as I
heard my mouth say, “Yep”.
“Sign here please”, I signed and the theft was
almost complete. The bike was way too big for me, I dread to think what the
policeman thought as I fell from attempted mounts. It was far from
an ideal get away vehicle.
Riding
on the success of my previous theft, I confidently faced my next opportunity at 3am on the Herrengracht in Amsterdam. Patrick and I were visiting for the weekend.
I had avoided the metro controllers for six months in Paris travelling ticketless. I felt the impending exhaustion of my luck and an alternate form
of transport was necessary. I lived on the Place des Vosges in the Marais quarter
of Paris.
A Marais is a marsh, evidently it was flat as far as I would want to
travel (to the Louvre, the BHV, Monoprix and home) and a bicycle was the
obvious choice.
I hadn’t
thought of it until a junkie/bike thief saw the three of us Patrick, Robert and myself, stumbling home on one bicycle under the influence of Amsterdam
delights. The junkie asked if we wanted to buy another bicycle.
As I was driving back to Paris the next day, I thought it a very wise
investment. The junkie paraded the bike in question asking for 25 Guilders.
Dam, I’d just spent my last 25 guilder note on a herbal souvenir. To stall, I
said I liked the bike, but would prefer a model in green. I knew full well how
desperate he was to sell and that it was not as he mentioned; a bike he bought
for his girlfriend who dumped him before he had a chance to give it to her. He asked me to wait a minute, while he searched for a green one. He foolishly left the
brown bike in my care to fetch the green one. This was my big chance.
“Patrick get on!” I was off, Patrick was not on rather in fits of laughter, but I was still
off. The seventeenth century engineer who dammed the Amstel and designed the
canals did not have my get away plan in mind. I grew up in strict grid style
urban planning and the circular pattern of the canals had me beat and
lost. I had no idea where Patrick, Robert or the bike thief were. It’s a little
hard to flee if you aren’t aware that you are indeed going around in circles. I
was desperate to find Patrick and Robert and not to find the bike thief. As luck
wasn’t on my side this thieving occasion, I found the thief first.
“Oh hello, I
was wondering where you got to.” I said attempting innocence. He was
cross, I was scared and lost. With Dutch courage I said,
“well come on, from one
thief to another you must give me brownie points for trying.” Fortunately this
amused him and I confessed I had spend my last 25 guilder note on a bag of herbs. Cutting his losses he agreed to barter the bike for the herbs. To
satisfy his need to punish me, he explained that I was a very naughty girl and
therefore I wasn’t allowed to have the green bike. I was soon after riding the Rue du Rivoli on my beautiful
brown bike.
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