anywhere without both wheels. I locked my bike to a parking meter in front of the Planned Parenthood in San Francisco. In to get more birth control pills or maybe for that failed HIV blood test attempt, left, through all the bulletproof rooms, down the elevator, walked to my bike. Am I just imagining it or was my wheel really gone? Poof. Gone without a trace. Instantly, I imagine the faceless hood unscrewing my quick release in seconds and dashing down Van Ness with the aluminum-rimmed wheel.

I walked for 45 minutes from downtown to the Upper Haight, pushing my bike by holding the handlebars and tipping it up on its one back wheel. I retrieved a new wheel from Velo City (my second new wheel in a month, the first one to replace the wheel bent in the reflector incident earlier the same month). $49.95 later, I left with a theft prevention tip from Ken, the kind mechanic.

He said, “Buy two metal hosing clamps from the hardware store on Haight Street. Then, clamp down the quick release knobs, messenger style, and keep a small screw driver in your bag.”

I followed his instructions. After that, it took a little longer to take off my wheels, but they were still easily removed. Never lost one since.

But wheels do get stolen in San Francisco. I’d heard of that. Chains, however, are another story. By all accounts, chains are supposed to last a very long time. According to the records at Velo City, in the first year that I messengered, I had a chain installed on January 16, February 20 and then again on April 11, and a fourth one later that spring, in early June (but not at Velo City). As a messenger during San Francisco’s rainy season, I wore through those metal links quickly, efficiently and effectively.

The last chain, the June catastrophe, I actually broke while I rode up a hill after I’d finished messengering. By then I was an edit assistant at Wired. Annoyed with people and feeling claustrophobic from my desk job, I decided to bike over the Golden Gate Bridge to stay the weekend at the hostel in the Marin Headlands. I missed riding desperately; I needed a break from the urban landscape.

Last minute, my housemate Josh decided to join me. A bike enthusiast as well, Josh chose me as a housemate (no small task in San Francisco at that time, due to the housing shortage) based partially on my job as a bike courier. He thought it was cool that I rode the city.

Riding that day, we made it all the way over the bridge, and were heading into Marin when my chain snapped, and again I rolled backwards downhill.

“Shit.”

“What happened?”

“My chain broke.”

Silent pause.

“What if I tow you with my bungee cord?”

“That won’t work. Shit.”

“Let’s try it.”

And we did. I walked my bike up the hill, Josh corded me onto his mountain bike’s rack, and he towed me over the few flat or slightly uphill stretches. Luckily, the road then leads downhill all the way into Sausalito, and I coasted in to the nearest bike shop for the replacement. That chain lasted over a year.

Motion of mounting an old bike. Smell of your own sun-warmed skin. Feel of 72 degrees. Mother’s hands. Sound of wind through trees. Phone ringing unanswered. A lover’s back. Traffic. A sibling’s sneeze. Footsteps. Childhood home. Pad Thai. Smell of avocado leaves. Sound a bike pump makes inflating a tire. These are familiar, soothing things.