By Alison Bate

I’m drinking a Calabreze at Milano’s coffee shop, waiting for a call from the woman who bought my stolen bike.

A very Vancouver situation.

The other night, after walking along False Creek with a friend, I said goodbye and went to retrieve my latest dark blue bike, locked outside Science World.

I glanced across at the red bike in the rack alongside, sensing something familiar, and checked it out from all angles. No way!

It was just like my old red bike, a women’s Kitsilano Everyday, stolen more than a year ago. Locked and attached to a pole outside my home in Fairview, I left it outside overnight by mistake. In the morning, it was gone, the pole dismantled, lying forlornly on the ground. I never reported the theft to police as it wasn’t an expensive bike and felt it was partly my fault anyway, leaving it out overnight in this bike-theft-crazy city.

But this bike is definitely mine.  I recognised the comfy saddle, the scratches in the white paint on the front forks, the old-fashioned brakes, the upright handlebars and the missing orange reflector on the back tire. Only the tires were different: mine were hybrids and this one had mountain bike tires.

It was locked, so I couldn’t just take it back. I waited around for 10 minutes, hoping the bike rider would show up but they didn’t. Eventually, I left a note for the new “owner”, giving my phone number and saying the bike was stolen from me. Oh, and I attached my bike lock to the red bike. Now it had two locks and neither of us could ride it.

I’d been home about 90 minutes when I got a phone call from a woman, saying she bought the bike for $100 from Facebook Marketplace about a year ago. She didn’t dispute it might be stolen but said she was a victim, too. Hmm. Bought a bike cheap off Facebook Marketplace. She could give me the seller’s contact info but would I please come down right away and unlock the bike.

“I’m not doing anything tonight,” I retorted. “You get me the Marketplace contact number and we’ll take it from there.”

“You’re going to leave me stranded?”

Her sense of entitlement annoyed me. Clearly, she should offer to hand the bike back but she’s not going to. Also, she’s right by a SkyTrain station and in no way stranded.

“I might have to call the police and get them to take the lock off,” she said.

“Whatever. You do that.” I got another call at 11 p.m. but didn’t know if it was from her and turned my phone off.

Now it’s the morning, I’m at Milano’s café, and have calmed down. Since my bike was stolen, I’ve already got another one and she’s using the red bike to commute. A worthy activity. I’m going to let her keep my old one.

Later in the day we establish credibility. She texts screenshots of the bike advert and I send a photo of my bike taken while camping near Seaside, Oregon.

When I return to Science World to take my lock off, the red bike now has three locks. She’s added an extra one to make sure the wheels aren’t stolen overnight.

Three locks: I guess this is what it takes to keep a bike safe in Vancouver nowadays.

UPDATE: Better late than never, I’ve just registered my two bikes on Vancouver police’s Project 529 website.