Zen And The Art Of Pedal Cycle Theft

An odyssey into the heart of darkness where the stolen bikes go to mark 'Garda bike auction day'

I walked into the shed of my block one afternoon when I was on the late shift and - it wasnt there. For a minute, I racked my brain. Did I leave it in town last night? Is it back in the gaf? Is it somewhere else? No, it wasnt. It was here last night when I came in, locked it, and now its gone.

Heart pounding, I found the 'super' and we fast forwarded through the nights CCTV footage. There he was, a fucker in a black leather jacket, white pants, and a Coca-Cola sweatshirt. A decent shot of him too. So who was this guy? The super had no idea, nor the Garda, but I knew who he was. He was my Rollo Tomasi, my voodoo doll, my idée fixée - every dickhead, loser, psycho, paranoiac, backstabber, waster, pest, spoilt richkid, male or female piece of shit I'd ever had the miserable misfortune to encounter in my life to that very point encapsulated in this individual breaking in through the gate, cracking my lock open, and making off with my bike. I wanted to find him. But more than anything, I wanted my bike. So off I went, on a mini adventure of sorts, to see if I could find the bike in the murkier parts of the city.

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A public auction of bicycles will take place at Kevin Street Garda Station in Dublin at 11am on Thursday 6th October 2005.

The Kevin Street Garda bike auction is on tomorrow.

About six months ago, I decided to throw caution, and the little voice warning me in my head, to the wind - I went and spent a lot of money on a bike. Now, I dont know how many times I had said to people "You cant buy a decent bike in Dublin, it'll just get lifted somewhere along the line." And yet here I was, in need of a new bike, contemplating spending about 350 euros on a hybrid. It was a bit over a weeks wages, when you say it like that I guess it doesnt sound too much; but you can get a proper working bike for about a third of that, and at the time my finances were flickering back and forth from the red and black, so a huge investment was slightly risky. You know where this is going already dont you. But I said fuck it: the weather is getting better, I'm spending loads of money on the bus to work, I need the exercise to get rid of the belly, and if I have to spend one more hour lodged in traffic with wannabe wiggas smoking incessantly at the back of the top deck, I'll kill them all with a pen and then myself.

Within a month I felt like the investment had been worth it. Nice thin tyres, no more waiting at the bus stop, and hang on - how come I'm in work ten or fifteen minutes earlier? I think the buzz of just being on a bike with decent working cogs and gears had me adrenalised; its only when you get a new machine you realise how fucked your old one was.

I walked into the shed of my block one afternoon when I was on the late shift and - it wasnt there. For a minute, I racked my brain. Did I leave it in town last night? Is it back in the gaf? Is it somewhere else? No, it wasnt. It was here last night when I came in, locked it, and now its gone. Heart pounding, I found the 'super' and we fast forwarded through the nights CCTV footage. There he was, a fucker in a black leather jacket, white pants, and a Coca-Cola sweatshirt. A decent shot of him too. So who was this guy? The super had no idea, nor the Garda, but I knew who he was. He was my Rollo Tomasi, my voodoo doll, my idée fixée - every dickhead, loser, psycho, paranoiac, backstabber, waster, pest, spoilt richkid, male or female piece of shit I'd ever had the miserable misfortune to encounter in my life to that very point encapsulated in this individual breaking in through the gate, cracking my lock open, and making off with my bike.

I wanted to find him. But more than anything, I wanted my bike. So off I went, on a mini adventure of sorts, to see if I could find the bike in the murkier parts of the city. First stop was the bike shops around town. No, we dont buy bikes, all of them said. Unless you have a receipt, and even then its only from people we know. Otherwise, there'd be a queue of people out the door every day with knocked off stuff, looking for drug money. You're better off trying elsewhere.

So I got up early in the morning and went down to the Cumberland Street market. I had heard off one or two people that stolen gear ends up here, but I was there for about half an hour and it was a waste of my time. In case you dont know it, the market is a jumble sale which happens every Saturday morning just off Parnell Street. The merchandise is very low quality. Its mostly old clothes, CDs by people you've never heard of, old kitchen utensils, and odds and ends of worn down electrical equipment. I did see a bike for sale, but it was in bits. If my stolen bike had shown up here, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

The next place I looked was a private house at 296 North Circular Road, Phibsboro, next to St Peters Church. A woman called Eileen sells bikes which are parked in the front, locked up with a heavy chain. She sits in the sitting room and watches TV all day, occasionally glancing outside for customers. I asked her if she'd had any new bikes in, and after she said no, I told her I was on the lookout for a stolen bike. Later in the week, when I was talking to the owner of a bikeshop on the northside, he gave me some advice. "There's a place where this woman fences off bikes. Now dont mention anything to her about looking for a stolen bike, just tell her you want something really nice, and you're willing to spend a bit of cash on it." I knew exactly who he was talking about. Too late I told him, kicking myself for my stupidity, the cat is already out of the bag with her. "Oh well," he said, "you might have had some luck there. She's the biggest fence on the northside. All of the robbed bikes from Cabra, Phibsborough end up with her. The Garda raided her a couple of years back, found a load of stolen bikes out her back yard."

My search also led me to a scrap of derelict ground used as a carpark/valet service, right at the junction of Parnell Street and Capel Street where the road splits in two to form a delta. A handmade sign atop a very nice mountain bike announced there were bikes for sale here. I had a look around, inquiring about prices. Further casual enquiries by a friend about where the bikes came from were met with sudden deathly silence and stony glares - hinting get the fuck out of here right now. The bikes are still for sale there, nailed up onto the wall like hunt kills. Some (s)crap, but some very good models.

So no joy at Cumberland Street, Eileens, or the Parnell St lot. At the same time the trail with the video footage was running cold. I had a decent facial .jpeg image of the thief, and on my next day off I was going to visit Reads and run off a thousand or so A4 posters threatening all sorts of medieval torture on him, and promising a heavy financial reward to any snitches out there. These were going to be wheatpasted on every available surface between the two canals. I was going to get my man. I was even dreaming about him at night. I saw his face over and over again. At one point I even tailed someone who I thought looked like him back to his house, and staked it out for a while, looking in his letterbox. Of course I couldnt be sure if it was the right person, my eyes and ears were honed like a Vietcong in the thick of the jungle... everyone on a bike was a potential target.

I was also ringing up numbers in Buy and Sell, the trade magazine for second hand gear. I had gone through several numbers asking the voices at the other end what model bike they were selling. On the second or third issue I had bought, wasting my credit and work break times, I rang up a number in Crumlin. The woman on the line was cagey, hesitant, unsure - guilty in my book. But no, she just genuinely didnt know what kind of bike it was, it was her young son that was selling it, he got it for his birthday a couple of years ago. The conversation up to this point had my heart pounding at the possibility of a breakthrough, but as soon as she said this I laughed and admitted to her I wasnt interested in buying, I was only looking for a stolen bike.

And then, in the same way a stranger had stepped into my circle of existence and skewed my headspace a week previously, she dropped the tone of her voice and gave me some sage advice, sending me on a different path again. She talked to me for about fifteen minutes as if she knew me all her life. Let it go. It will drive you insane if you devote any more of your time to it. It isnt easy, but if you let it go, then it will be better for you. You cant let yourself be consumed with finding this person. It happens to everyone sometime. You'll get another bike. You'll cycle another road some time.

And almost like that, a weight suddenly vanished from my being... they say to err is human, to forgive is devine - but to forget about it and let it go was near transcendental, reincarnating, ecstasy, nirvana, enlightenment. OK maybe a slight exaggeration there but I put the receiver back down on its cradle and for the first time in a while I smiled. I guess I didnt let it go immediately but over the next day or two I let it slide from memory and focused on the future instead. I had another bike up and running, an abandoned frame rescued from scrub ground. I fixed the brake cable, got new pads, cleaned out the cogs and readjusted the derailler screws, got a new back tyre and a new entire front wheel. The journey to work seemed almost as light and easy as those first few brief weeks on my new, expensive, stolen bike.

I went to Kevin Street earlier in the week, just to have a look in case it did show up. So maybe I never really ever fully let it go. No sign of it of course, but I wasnt sad. I dont like to say bike theft in Dublin a grim reality of life, but I guess there are always people out there who just dont give a shit about others and the effects their actions have on them, more than you realise... There were a load of bikes there in a separate shed to where the auction takes place. Each one obviously has their own story behind it, as do all the others up for auction tomorrow morning. Earlier this year Michael McDowell promised a new unit to investigate the huge jump in the rate of "theft of a pedal cycle", no sign of anything materialising yet. Maybe when the city starts valuing bikes more and cars less, there'll be a greater collective respect to those out there braving the streets clogged with cars, trucks, buses, taxis and thieves.

Cumberland Street, not on market day. Bike not here though.

Eileen the fence's house.

Stolen bikes for sale on Parnell St West.