Dear Jerk,

This last week was not the week for me. First of all, the the luxurious weather we have all been enjoying for the last year came home to roost with two weeks of shitty drizzly rain. Not the cats and dogs rain you see in romantic comedies where the couple have a candle lit dinner and a hi-five. No, it’s the worst kind- in my book- that drizzle that seems into every taped seam of any “waterproof” clothing one might have. And second, my boss was dispatching. Not my regular ol’ Steve Coogan lookin, Lumberg looking dispatcher, but my BOSS. Everything is on end when he’s at the helm. These two elements combined make for a bummer week.

My one location of solace, is 55 Second Street; a public space that’s indoors, equipped with tables and chairs for the dorks, and lay-z-boys for the… lazy boys. Ah, heaven! Especially on a rain day, and especially when you only want quiet. Only I didn’t have it. No sooner did I sit down, than my boss called me to pick up some mundane BS from god-knows-where.

I go outside. And my fender is on the ground. And I’m thinking, “why is my fender… on… the…” Now, this is the second time this has happened to me; I come outside to my fender next to (not on) my bike, and my seat and seatpost are gone. On a rain day.


I always imagine a seat thief to be some dastardly individual, lurking around the corner, laughing in his top hat and twisting his mustache, and my seat post is crucial in his tying of a woman to the train tracks.  He’s probably waiting to see me, ride off, sans saddle, marked with a scarlet letter. A mark that says, “hey world, this guys just got punked, and this is insult to injury.” You win this round, seat thief!

But, they left my fender. On a rain day. Thanks, Jerk, for looking out for my ass when it’s wet out.

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