I woke up in my Brooklyn apartment, grabbed some dirty clothes off the floor, shuffled into untied shoes, and groggily headed out the door. The façade of my local coffee shop beamed like a beacon as I anticipated that first sip. As my feet hit the pavement my daydream was shattered—I notice my bike was not locked to the fence outside of my building. I looked around and tried to remember the last time I locked it up. Had I left it somewhere else the day before? I got my coffee, and with a caffeine-aided mind, realized that yes, in fact, it had been stolen.
“I need to get the hell out of the city,” I thought.
I was bummed but not too bad. It was a cheap single speed I’d been riding around NYC for probably five years. I’d been eyeing mountain bikes for a while, thinking of how nice it would be to have gears and to be able to go off-road. This seemed like a sign. Time to upgrade.