Seatless On Willoughby

A seatless bike offer no comfort. The rider must always be moving forward, always be propelling the bike forward in a tall stance. The rider never gets a chance to sit back and enjoy the ride as he has no place to sit. The result is a high speed surge towards your destination, constantly testing the limits of the bikes speed to break neck outcomes.

I noticed the seatless bike imprisoned on the corner of Willoughby and Spaulding. Abandoned by its owner and left chained to a street light. At the time, I worked at the Hollyweird Cafe and would pass the bike on my walk to work. A trashy bit of art, the bike whimpered a sadness from its weather beaten, powered blue shell and headless seat post.

I often wondered what happened to the owner of the seatless bike. Did he or she have the seat or was it stolen after the abandonment? In a city where someone dies every day, the outcomes could be more nefarious than in safer locations.

For an entire Summer, the bike was chained on the corner and forced to brave the elements. Over time, I became obsessed with the seatless bike. What could it have done to deserve this D.I.Y. Pillory? What kind of owner would leave their bike like this? In the early months, it had appeared a used but good bike. Humans threw away perfectly good items all the time, yet the chain presented the real mystery.

The chain stated the bike was owned property and led to an assumption of the owner’s intention to return. What could have kept the owner from their return? Some days the owner was a drug carrier, who was shot, and a deal turned bad led to his absence. Other days, the owner was shanghaied by Pirates and was currently chained, like his bike, in the galley of a Ship, sailed under the banner of Micky Dolenz. The owner would look out over the green, blue sea and yearn for his beloved metal steed.

Most of my self conjured owner fates, would end with a grizzled, strong jawed, cross dressing detective who had nothing more than a bicycle seat as his only clue to the crime. If he could find the bike that the seat belong to, then he might find a note inserted into the hollow metal tube of the seat post that would unravel the whole case.

His Police Chief, marred by the political forces at work, would be reluctant to issue a warrant. The Chief might scream his head off about loose cannons, free wheeling, and the approach of his retirement. Yet, the detective is known as untouchable cop with a curt humor and wise cracking mouth. The Police Chief reluctantly gives in. Intro the grand finally, the multi-million dollar mansion explodes into the ball of fire and all the bad guys go to jail, just like real life.

But why had I become obsessed with the seatless bike? Had the bike become a metaphor for my existence by fate or did my mind use the seatless bike for its own accord. Freud wasted a whole career and life in the quest to find the answer to this question and I had my mind on other things.

The job I hated and had, the girl I wanted and didn’t. The empty numbers in my bank account and a ever dwindling supply of chemicals to imbalance my poor broken mind. I had learned by watching the American Government and I, too, was seatless on Willoughby.

Every night when I walked to the work. I and the bike shared a common fate. Stranded in the obscure landscape of Hollywood, where the star lined sidewalks don’t want to know your name. With no direction, aside from the chains that bound us to our current predicament. For the present future, we were both bound to the elements and forced by man and nature to weather the storm.

We didn’t have a clue or the equipment necessary. We were both broken, disregarded trash. A pair of underdog, modern day, Davids left to face the giants of reality. Seatless and on a crash course with history, in one shape, form, or stretch of the imagination.