What Happened When I Went Looking For A Stolen Bike

The message came in while I was reading online student drafts, seated at the table on my porch. It was spring in Tucson, and snow-melt was running in the Rillito. Sun shone. Gold finches, cardinals, Gila woodpeckers, and Gambel's quail chirped and squawked and sang. The fountain gurgled its happy little melody.

Over this halcyon moment hung a pall of quarantine from COVID 19, the novel coronavirus. We teachers and other non-essential workers were "sheltering in place" to keep the virus from infecting so many that the healthcare system would be overwhelmed. That fact stuck in my joints, made me feel tight, confined, resistant to any movement.

The message overrode the quiet moment with the urgency of a distress call. Ricky I. was following someone riding one of our stolen bikes. He wanted to contact me and didn't know how. I switched from reading student papers to fight/flight/chase mode with all the adrenaline that comes with that. I punched my phone number along with "I'm here." into the social media post. Immediately my phone rang.

"I saw your bike. I know it from the photos you sent out. It's a positive ID. Definitely the bike. The guy riding it is way too big for it too. It's clearly not his bike," Ricky said. "He took it down to a homeless camp in the wash by Tucson Mall, Stone Avenue, near the bus transit center."  

"Thanks," I said. "I'll head over."

"You want me to wait here?"

"No, I'll take care of it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

I had no idea what I would do, but grabbed a phone, a camera, and my folding knife. I got out of my stay-at-home shorts and put on some jeans and a tough looking t-shirt. I didn't know what I was getting into.

I called Sean and Aaron, my sons, and we all agreed to meet up at the transit center and head over to the camp.

Sean brought a big u-lock and a key to lock the bike if we found it. Aaron brought a can of pepper spray in case things got nasty. I had my GoreTex hiking shoes and grungy baseball cap.

Sean and I arrived first and walked over to the railing above the camp. I could see the makeshift shelters and some movement below between the tarps and the tents.

"Hey," I yelled. "You have my stolen bike and I want it back. Bring it out or I'm calling the cops." I held up my phone. "It was seen here a little while ago. We know you have it."

A young, tough-looking guy in a wife-beater stepped into view. I could see tattoos and well-defined muscles. He was carrying a glass pipe of some kind. I guessed he had just taken a hit of something.

"Come on down," Tough Guy said, somewhat threatening, "and fucking look. We don't have your bike. And I didn't steal your fucking bike."

He stood there below me, in the brush, defiant in the sun, a young man used to confrontation, ready for anything, pipe in hand.

Another young guy joined the first, then a third. It looked like there were quite a few, and things were getting a little tense.

This was a standoff.

"I'm not coming down," I said. "I just want the bike."

I decided to dial it back a bit.

"I didn't say you stole it. And if I did, I apologize. But we just want the bike. It's a red mountain bike with a white fork."

"We don't have it. That guy left. He took the bike with him."

The tone changed and became more of a negotiation, an exchange of information.

"It's my wife's bike. I want it back."

"It's not here."

As we talked the second guy was approaching and climbing the bank of the river toward us. He had a closely shaved head and tattoos. He was built low and tight, like a boxer. He did not seem threatening though, just on his way somewhere.

I noticed others leaving the camp also. Women, men, older and younger. The camp had more people in it than I thought possible given the size. They were dressed for work, did not have the tough or druggy or gang-banger look of the other young guys. There was more going on here than I thought.

"Your bike is across the river in the tunnel by the Quik Trip," Boxer Guy said as he approached. He was giving me intel., trying to help out.

"It's behind the dumpsters in a tunnel. That's where you'll find the guy who took your bike."

Through all of this Sean had been watching, holding his phone, ready to shoot video if necessary.

Tough Guy had turned and gone back to the shelter of the camp. Boxer Guy offered his hand for a handshake, but I declined saying "It's this virus thing." He nodded with a look that said "whatever," and rode away on his BMX  bike.

Sean and I headed back to the cars to follow our tip, the insider info, and where it pointed: Quik Trip. Across the river. Behind the dumpsters. Into the tunnel.

What we would find there was more than we would have ever guessed.

(To be continued... )