Miracles DO really happen – I am happily reunited with my bicycle, La Tallarin Verde! All because I threw out my back… seriously!
So I learned Wednesday what the phrase, “I threw out my back” really means. Awful shooting pains up my spine and the inability to stand up straight led to an unexpected day of laying down on Thursday. Justin and I decided to watch a morning movie, an event which has never occurred prior in our relationship (I think in total we have had the attention span to stay up for 5-6 movies since we started dating).
After the film, Justin showed me a Sacramento craigslist ad that he was arranging to go see about purchasing another Novara bicycle. My Novara was stolen on the UC Berkeley Campus on October 24th, 2012 when I was attending a chemistry class from 7-10pm. Her name was La Tallarin Verde, and I had the privilege of cycling down the continent of South America with her. When I saw the cable cut on the ground with only my helmet still attached, I fell to my knees as if the air had been instantaneously sucked out of my lungs. Oddly, as if on a movie set, rain started to pour from the sky.
I curled up from my position in our bed to look at the ad for the bicycle. I rubbed my eyes and squinted closer, expanding the view of the image as my heart began to race. I recognized the many scratches on my bike’s frame! “Justin… Justin this my bicycle.”
Justin came over in a state of disbelief but after closer inspection, he realized the different, unique parts that he had changed were also on the bike! We immediately grabbed the phone and called the non-emergency police. Of course the first question we received from the unmoved operator was, “How do you know it’s your bike?”
My stomach was in clenched knots. How do you explain, after six months and 10,000km of travel by bicycle down the spine of the Andes, that one develops an attachment to a bicycle, a friendship, a love, a connection? We survived potholes, gravel roads, horseshoes breaking spokes sending you flying off the handlebars, 70mph winds, salt crusted to every pore as we crossed the Salar de Uyuni, massive bulls staring us down with no fence to create at least a measly sense of security.
My voice sounded oddly high-pitched, “It has scratches and tape on the frame that we recognize as well as unique swapped parts. We have the vin number for the bicycle so we just need to check the frame to match the number.”
The operator told us to call back 3-5 minutes prior to arriving at the seller’s house to request an officer and promptly hung up. Justin hurried to gather our belongings. He chatted with the gentleman via text to meet at 12:30 to purchase the bike and sweetly helped me wobble to the car in my crooked, broken condition, while also making sure I had plenty of pillows and ice for the ride.
We drove less than 15 minutes to a Pep Boys near the seller’s house, and called the non-emergency line for the officers once more. A new operator came on the line and told us she highly advised us not going to this person’s house. Justin, in his agreeable manner, convinced her to still send an officer. The operator made it clear that she would send an officer, but made no promises that they would come to the household with us. We hung up, shared a deep sigh, and began to sit in the car waiting. And waiting… and waiting. 3 rounds of “Go-Fish” later, since my mind was so anxious, I could not focus to play any game that required much thought, Justin called the operator once more. 4 phone calls and 1.5 hours later, two police vehicles arrived with two officers. As we stepped out of our vehicle to meet them, I looked up to the sky and felt rain drops start to tickle my forehead.
After I told the curious officers about my travels with Tallarin, their interests were peaked to see if it was indeed the same bike. “So you just want to see if your vin number matches, and if it does, its your bike?” one of the kind officers said with a smile.
“Yes!” we replied with excitement as they shook their heads in agreement to follow us to the home down the street.
Upon arrival at the house, Justin was the first to walk up to the gentleman’s open garage, where he was working away on maintenance of another bicycle.
“I am sorry to say this my friend, but we believe this bicycle was stolen,” Justin stated, in his natural, friendly voice. The gentleman seemed shocked at the statement, and when he looked up to see the policemen, he said, “I have the number of the guy I bought it from!”
Justin flipped over the bike and when I saw the correct vin number, tears of joy rolled down my face as I held her in the rain. The officers gave us the go ahead to leave, and we rolled Tallarin back to our car, placing her on the bike rack in a state of shock. Three months to the day, we were reunited less than 15 minutes from our house in Sacramento.
What are the odds?
Big Smiles!
Melissa
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