Forgive me for I have Schwinned Sometimes, I foolishly give people in this terrible, mixed-up world the benefit of the doubt.  For instance, when I was about to leave for a midterm one morning and my bicycle was no longer at its usual post, chained outside my bedroom window, my first thought was that perhaps I had parked it somewhere else.  Maybe I put it in the back of the building and it had just slipped my mind.  I have never put my bike in the back of the building before, but this was the only reasonable explanation I could muster up.  Before jumping to the realistic conclusion that the bike had, in fact, been stolen right out from under my nose, I called Pat in a final attempt at a happy ending.  I thought it was possible that he had secretly taken my bike so that he could surprise me with a new paint job or a bell.  Of course, that was not the case.  My ten-year-old, young-adult bike from Wal-Mart was gone, and along with it, my Pollyanna-like naiveté. My instinct was to retreat back into my basement apartment/cave and give up on the day.  The View was on, after all, and I thought I deserved a break.  Unfortunately, I had a midterm in 15 minutes, and a 25 minute walk now ahead of me.  I set off at a brisk pace, unwilling to demean myself any further by attempting to jog.  As I hustled through alleyways, I gave my friend Hannah a call on the outside chance she was nearby in a car that was traveling towards my stats classroom.  Alas, she was not, so I used my extra travel time to tell her about the injustice of my bike theft.  Becoming increasingly nervous about the consequences of being late to my midterm, and hot from speed-walking with a scarf and mittens on, I didn’t notice the bums in the alley trying to approach me.  Finally, I realized that one man was requesting a quarter, apparently frustrated that I didn’t hear him the first time he asked.  “Sorry,” I said as I passed them.  I didn’t have time to spare so that I could give away money.  I continued talking to Hannah, when Bum #2 called out “Sorrrrrrrrry! Sorrrrry! Oh, you’re sorry?! You’re not sorry!” The realization that a vagrant was mocking me was too much.  Hot, sweaty, and ill-prepared for an exam, I took the hobo-bait and lost my shit.  “I am sorry!  I’m sorry someone stole my bike, so fuck you!”  Hannah, still on the line, asked who I was talking to.  Just some bums. Though I had only recently started riding my bike to school, mainly because I think I look so silly making hand signals, I found the return to walking unbearable.  What with my busy schedule of watching women’s programming, I don’t have time to walk places.  So, after a brief mourning period when I declared that I didn’t want another bike, only my bike, I began the search for a replacement.  I couldn’t buy just any bike because I never learned to ride a proper adult bike equipped with many gears and hand brakes.  And this was no time to learn to ride a new bike.  But thanks to the magic of online auctions, and Pat’s foxy outbidding, I won a classic Schwinn bicycle for 76 dollars.  The bike is quite stylish and what with the basket/cargo space, I can transport pans of fresh muffins whenever I please.  As with every impulse buy, however, there is an unforeseen disadvantage.  I discovered when I drove to pick up the bicycle, that back in 1961, bikes were much sturdier.  In fact, they were so sturdy that I required the assistance of a senior citizen in a motorized scooter to help me cram the bike into the trunk of my car.  This bike is a behemoth, and after riding it for less than a week, I feel like I may have a heart attack at any moment.  It weighs in at 50 lbs – something I know only after taking a bathroom scale outside to the front stoop and weighing myself holding the bike, under the moonlight.  I’m actually a little disappointed, because my best estimate was that it was around 260 lbs.  The moral of the story is, if you stole my old featherweight bicycle (it was a blue Murray “Stingray”), please return it before I collapse during a routine muffin delivery.