Got waved over by a police officer the other day. He was kind of friendly looking, and I reluctantly and dutifully stopped and he said, hi there, would you like to register your bike with the Toronto police? Behind him I saw some people milling about at a table near the entrance of the station on this beautiful late summer day. Makes it easier to keep track of it in case it gets stolen, he said, just takes 5 minutes. We’ll take your name and your serial number….

I don’t have a serial number, I thought.

Last year I bought an old bike. A banged up cornflower blue 1973 Raleigh cruiser. A pretty thing, especially with the purple bell, and the yellow and violet flowers on the baskets. I tried to register it back then, because my previous bike had been stolen, but when I finally found the place where the serial number should be I noticed it had been ground off. There’s probably only one reason someone would grind off a serial number. So my little Dusty has history, I thought. Good for her. In more recent  history, since I’ve owned her, she also lost the use of one of her three gears, and one of her brakes.

But she runs. I should say she ran. That changed later that day. Well, wait, she still runs! It’s the stopping that’s the problem! Or the lack of stopping. And it’s a fluke I didn’t get seriously mangled.

Old rusty Dusty tried to kill me, you see, but timing is everything, and hasty Dusty jumped the gun and missed.

I’ve been looking at new bikes. Dusty wasn’t supposed to be a permanent solution, but what I want is very expensive. I was still contemplating putting some money into Dusty instead, but she would never be what I wanted her to be, so to be honest, I just put off the decision, frankly at the cost of my safety, and I’m a bit embarrassed about it.

I said to the officer, that was a great idea, but that I couldn’t do it right now, and he said I could also do it online, and I said, I’ll definitely do that!

Then I went to visit a friend.

On my way home I was slowing down at the end of my friend’s side street about to turn left, and down a very steep hill, but Dusty’s only working brake snapped inside the handle, and I was entirely brakeless, but coasting to a halt towards the edge of the main road.

I took a moment to consider the fate I’d just escaped. Then I made a decision that today was the first and last time Dusty and I would take the bus, and that tomorrow would be bike shopping day.

Taking the bus was fun. A couple of guys showed up at the bus stop, too. Really interesting characters carrying clear garbage bags full of old stuffed animals. One of them knew how to work the rack on the front of the bus and racked my bike for me. I knew in theory, had watched a video on YouTube, but had never done it. Getting the bike off was easy, but I forgot to flip the rack back up, and the bus driver had to come out, and reprimand me.

The next day I got a ride from a friend to the bike shop, tried out 3 bikes, and fell in love with the most expensive one. The mechanic gave it a little tune up, made sure everything was symmetrical, and tight, and buffed up the warm matte white body with a soft cloth. I said don’t make it too shiny or someone will steal it right from under me – just push me off: I want that! and ride away on my new bike.

At the cash register, the sales guy asked me if I had a good lock, then he told me my receipt had my serial number on it, and the website where I should register my bike with the Toronto police.

I hugged my “driver”, sent him home, and my new friend and I took our first, somewhat shaky, trip together. Everything works! What a treat.

I spent a lot of money, and I’m not quite done spending, but when I think about the money I’ve saved on bus fare in the last 5 years, it’s sort of like I’ve got a free bike!