The (almost) Bicycle Thief

This is the story of me catching a bike thief on Saturday. I have “storified” it a little for my enjoyment and hopefully yours too. I hope you enjoy reading it:

I was out shopping in Manchester. I had ridden my bike as I usually do, chaining it up in Exchange Square. For those of you who do not know Manchester, this is the equivalent of chaining it up in New York’s Times Square. It is a bustling crossroads, between the Arndale centre, The Triangle, Selfridges and the bars of The Printworks. I always leave my bike here as it is the busiest part of town. More eyes are on it, making it harder for anyone to take it.

I left the bike and disappeared into the Arndale for a while. Later on I headed over to the Triangle to get a ginger beer from the Fair Trade Cafe. Approaching the spot where my bike was I saw a man mounting up. He was dangling a carrier bag of the handle bars, wasn’t wearing a helmet and was wearing a big bulky black coat. He was obviously not a keen rider. Still I glanced down at his wheels, hoping as I always do to spot a beauty amongst the pack of workhorses that Manchester cyclists use.

Time stopped. My brain clicked in to overdrive.
It was as if a computer took over my thoughts for a split second in order to calmly and efficiently run a diagnostics check. My eyes scanned the bike from saddle to wheel, noting every little detail on the way. It was a beauty of a bike. It was mine.

I shot like a bullet from a gun down the road in pursuit. I caught up with the man easily and for a moment we were parallel. I gave him a gentle push in the side. Somehow I’d timed it perfectly, as when he went down, he collided with a loose bin that broke his fall, before rolling in to the road in front of me. He was inches from either a lamppost or the concrete pavement. For one heart stopping moment he was still. The thought that I may have badly hurt him flashed through my mind. Mercifully after a few seconds he picked himself up, clutching his plastic bag to his side. He was dazed and murmured a protest.

I stabbed him in the chest with the tip of my forefinger. I told him, forcefully,

“That is my bike.”

I heard some kids mock my voice, twisting my words. That’s meeeh beehk. I didn’t care. I kept my eyes locked on to his. His face was awash with confusion, eyes scanning me, my face, everything for a clue. He didn’t find one. His mind settled on a thin desperate lie. Finally he cracked his lips and with a thick mancunian drawl he protested,

“Nah it’s not, I just bought this off a bloke off the street.”

I exploded. “NO YOU DIDN’T! THAT IS MY BIKE AND YOU KNOW IT!”

My spittle rained down on him and the street fell silent. All eyes were on us. I gained an unexpected measure of control. My voice rose and fell, punctuating the words that contradicted him, the words I wanted him to remember later on, “You DID NOT buy this bike, YOU STOLE it. This is MY bike and you KNOW this.”

In hindsight, I truly believe my limited theatrical training came to the fore here. I projected perfectly, my intonation was spot on. At the crucial moment when all eyes of Exchange square turned towards me, I performed. And I made sure that every single one of them was convinced that I was The Righteous, and he was The Thief.

A well kept man around my age stepped forwards. The Peacemaker, Benvolio. He touched my arm and spoke calmly,
“Hang on mate, someone is on their way and we’re gonna sort this out yeah?”

I liked his idea very much as evidence was on my side. My helmet was in my hand, the keys for the now broken bike lock were in my pocket, along with the clip on lights that only fit the mountings on my bike. I even had pictures of the bike on my phone and I knew instantly that I could prove to the police or anyone without a measure of a doubt that the bike belonged to me.

As I spoke I bore my gaze down on The Thief once more,
“Ok, yes. Let’s wait for the police and have a chat about whose bike this is.” Now both he and the crowd knew it too.

The Thief dropped his eyes, and by wordlessly turning to leave he admitted his guilt. The Thief limped away into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.

As the adrenalin wore away my hands began to tremble, but I was buoyed by the heroes welcome I received. People from the crowd began to cheer encouragement, “nice one mate!” “You did the right thing!” As I picked my bike up checking it over for damage, a middle aged couple walked over. They asked if I was ok, noticing my shaking hands and congratulated me for standing up to The Thief. The explained they had just come from a church service where they had discussed the prevalence of petty crime in today’s society, and said it was warming to see myself not fall victim to it. They joined me as I retrieved my bike locks, both of them neatly cut apart. No small feat as one is an industrial strength steel chain. It dawned on me that The Thief must have had his cutting tools in his plastic bag. No wonder they were the first thing he reached for after coming to.

My bike was mostly unscathed. The chain had come free and the rear break knocked out of line but it was nothing a good service wouldn’t fix. Even so, after letting my nerves steady I mounted up and took it to a bike shop for a check up. On the way I reflected on the incident. I had always had myself down as a bit of a coward. I never let myself get in to physical confrontations, the only time being in high school. So it took me as a complete surprise that I would so readily confront The Thief. He was after all much bigger than me. But then I have never had my morality tested in such a confrontational way before. It is nice to know that everything is in the right place. I came away from the incident with my bike security ideas dented, but with my pride wonderfully intact.

There is a Latin phrase; Deus ex Machina. Literally translated it means “god from the machine.” If my bike is the machine, I am its god. And I will strike down with furious vengeance on anyone who tries to take it from me. Apparently.