Justice Served...Lukewarm

One half-step more is all I need.  One half-second less confusion, less hesitation, and I grab the kid who is now accelerating away on my mountain bike which he just boosted from our rack, a mere 3 feet from where we sleep.   As I sprint after him in my pajamas and bare feet across the pavement of the Walmart parking lot, all I am thinking about is stopping him.  But what then?  When I have the straps of his backpack in my hands, when I’ve disrupted his flight for even an instant, what do I do then?  This is the moment to which I keep returning with a conflicted mixture of regret and gratitude.

We park overnight from time to time at Walmarts, all over this country.  Don’t judge, it’s not as bad as you think.  Sometimes it’s too brightly lit, too busy with traffic, or too close to a highway – but it’s always felt safe, much like a rest stop.  It’s convenient and free, and we along with thousands of other full-time RV’ers love it -- there’s even an app for it telling you which stores allow it and which stores don’t.  Now, keep in mind, we don’t hang out there.  We don’t set up the grill and lawn chairs.  We pull in, make dinner, watch a Redbox movie, go to bed, wake up, grab a block of ice and some coffee creamer and get on our way.  We don’t see the sense in paying for a campsite if all we’re going to do is sleep there before moving on.   In the past 4 years and almost 75,000 miles, we’ve definitely visited more than 30 but probably less than 50.
 

On this night, the Chicago Cubs win the World Series in spectacular, down-to-the-wire fashion.  I’m not even a sport fan, but tonight, I’m all in it for the Cubs!  It is their first in 108 years, there are 108 stitches on a baseball; it is a night of omens. 

We watch game 7 in a casino bar, but leave before the end of the 7^th inning, because it’s Comedy Night and the opening act goes on at 7pm, no matter the sports game of the century.  I have to pity the opening comedian; the Indians have just rallied with two runs on a Cubs wild pitch moments before he takes the stage.  Nothing is going to save his act, but his sacrifice might help the headliner score.  We find another place across town where the traditional Celtic band gathers for their weekly jam.  They don’t seem to mind our cheering and even give an inspired version of “take me out to the ballgame” during a commercial break.

The game is epic and when the last out in the bottom of the 10^th seals history, a young lady from Chicago jumps up on the bar and screams, “The Cubs Win the World Series! Drinks are on me!”  We celebrate with her and the 12 other Cubs fans for a while before slipping out to our little rig parked on the street a few blocks away. 

Tonight Shari walks back behind the trailer to inspect the lock on our bikes before climbing into the passenger seat, something she’s never done in four years of travel.  She doesn’t make a big deal of it, just checking on things.  Our plan is to find a place to park for the night along the Oregon coast; there are literally hundreds of pullouts along the coastal highway, offering beautiful views of the wild Pacific.  But after the rain delay and the extra inning, and the round on the house, our fatigue opts for the Walmart parking lot on the other side of town.  We park in a well-lit section away from traffic, put the jacks in and fall asleep.

Just before dawn, Shari wakes and jumps to the window.  I try to convince myself that she’s imagining things and that I didn’t just feel the subtle nudge on the trailer.  She is spooked, saying, “somebody is out there.”  The edge to her voice brings me fully awake, and I get up.  We feel another nudge, like someone tugging on the back, and I open the door.  Poking my head out, I see a young white dude, maybe 20 years old, throwing his leg over the first new bike I’ve owned in 25 years.

Without thinking, I bolt through the door accelerating as fast as I can, “Hey! That’s my FUCKING bike!”  I close the distance quickly, but he’s on the pedals now, and pumping for all he’s worth.  My adrenal glands drop the hammer in my blood stream and I almost touch the studded straps of his backpack.  If I dive now, if I leap for it…  I think about the Cubs, but even as I envision myself being the hero the nanosecond of opportunity slips away.  Is it really worth it? This is pavement we’re on afterall and I’m 45 years old! 

He arcs in a wide turn that I cannot hold with my bare feet on the wet blacktop.  I change angles, try to cut him off, yelling, “Put it down, put it down!”  My hope is that because I’ve gotten so close, he’ll just want to get away and ditch the bike. But this is no inexperienced thief, he can get away faster on the bike.  He plays me.

“Stop chasing me, and I’ll put the bike down!” he yells back, his voice a little shaky – he knows how close I got, and sounds scared.   My brain moderates a quick debate between the optimist in my head and the wise-ass.  I feel that I’m being played, but I can’t stop myself from falling for it a little bit.

“Maybe he just wants to get away; maybe he will drop it if we give him some space?”

“Yeah, and maybe Chuck Norris will pop out of the bushes and deal him a leaping roundhouse to the face! Keep running, stupid!

My feet slow for a few steps while I await the verdict in my head.  The kid, still on the bike, keeps pulling away.   I turn it on again as I realize my misstep, flying across pavement and landscaping islands. 

“Put the bike down!”
“I will, if you stop chasing me.”  

Our exchange changes nothing, he’s too far away for me to catch him.  I run on, hoping fate might throw in a wild card.  Within a few moments he’s up and over the embankment onto the road and riding off into the pre-dawn darkness.  My lungs burn, my feet feel like sandpaper, I can hardly speak, and he got away despite it all.  Shari meets me half-way back with the phone and we call the police.  We’re both shaking.   

The officer takes down the report in a professional and detached manner.  He tells me he’ll go into the store to view the security camera, see if he can find if there is someone on screen who matches the description.   When he returns, it’s like he just joined Team Hutch, “I saw the whole thing on the camera, and you almost had him, you were so close… I was cheering for you!”   

But what if I’d gotten him?  I have no answer to this as I replay the incident over and over.  The kid wasn’t attacking me personally; he’s just an opportunist who saw a sweet bike that was locked with a cable he could cut.  As much as I’d like to entertain fantasies of swift physical retribution, if I had to have the bike stolen, perhaps some sore feet and injured pride is the least injurious outcome?

We spend the rest of the day replaying all the little moments, learning something from each other that we didn’t see or remember.  Shari tells me of her premonition that something was going to happen with the bikes; she’d felt it when we walked out of the bar last night, but didn’t know how to express it.  We walk the trails at the nearby community college hoping to find a ditched bike in the bushes and check every bike rack and balcony in student housing.  We rehash one possible outcome or theory until we’re just sick of the whole thing and the whole town.   It’s time to go…the bike is gone.

Getting back in the car, we head south and catch up with a beautiful sunset at Cape Blanco, the western most point of Oregon.   The historic lighthouse illuminates an exposed rocky coast pounded by the unbroken Pacific Ocean.  It is stunning, and provides us the needed therapy of wildness to light our way back to normal.  We catch our breath and console ourselves that we have insurance, we aren’t injured and we’ll do whatever we can; but I still can’t help but feel like a victim.

The next day as we’re driving toward California, Shari answers the phone.  It’s the police from Coos Bay and the officer is stoked, they’ve got my bike!  An officer spotted it and stopped the young man riding it – who wasn’t the thief, but promptly gave him up.  We turn back toward Coos Bay to recover the bike and buy the u-lock equivalent of an armed guard for it. 

Justice has been served.  Now the police have a name, a video of our chase, and a picture of him from the security camera. Since there are several warrants out for his arrest, maybe this one will seal the deal?