I’m very sorry I lost you back in December. It was a frosty night, warmed by the revelry of my office holiday party, and at some point between my rendition of the “Single Ladies” dance and the following morning, you (in all your cobalt blue glory) became a casualty to the season.
During the 2,192 hours 27 minutes and 48 seconds you were missing, I did worry. I feared you’d been sold on the Citibike black market, traded between petty thieves in the outer (bike-less) boroughs. I cringed thinking you’d somehow crossed into the unchartered New Jersey. I imagined you trembling in a frigid basement, chained against other missing bicycles, weeping while footsteps and cackles echoed above. Night terrors startled my dreams: a crane lifting you, in pieces, from the icy depths of the East River; endless circles around Central Park, European tourists unsure of where or how to dock you. And all the while, tossing and turning over your well-being, I struggled with how the fuck I was going to pay the imminent $1,200 missing bike fee.
Alas, you were found. Not sure where. Not sure how. But I rejoiced and was overjoyed to mount you yet again.
Now we’ve had some recent fun: those stubborn rides (slash every ride) when you refuse to dock until the third or fourth try; your sticky handlebars; your ear-piercing squeaky brakes; your inability to travel north of 60th Street; and the last month, how my key doesn’t work at all at my most frequented stations (“you have to hold it in for a FULL minute”).
Until the end of today, when we ride again through the busy, pothole-filled bike lanes of Manhattan, I wish you well and I hope you’re having a lovely afternoon.