My bike: 2002-2006.

So, last week, in an event which initiated me into the ranks of countless frustrated Torontonians, my beloved bike was stolen. From work. Where it was locked up in a passcard-access cage. Which means that one of my coworkers either took it or unwittingly let someone in to do it.
On the whole, I've tried to remain pretty Zen about the whole thing. After all, there's nothing I can do about it. It's gone. Security is checking the cameras and notifying the police, but I'm well aware that the chances of me getting my bike back are laughably slim.
Every once in awhile, however, I get little waves of overpowering anger about it. I felt the same way when my laptop was stolen in fourth year of university--inconvenienced, yes, and totally violated. Whether driven by desperation or plain selfishness, the person who stole it still did something genuinely uncool. And now, as I result, I find myself without my main means of transportation in this city. And in the market for a new set of wheels.
All this is particularly poorly timed, as I had only just committed to a very costly (but once-in-a-lifetime and sure to be wonderful) ten-day trip to the Nahanni in the Northwest Territories later this summer.
So if anyone in the city is looking for me for the rest of the summer, I'll be the hobo in line for the TTC. Until I can get my mits on a cheap replacement, my red helmet will be retired.
Rest in peace, old girl.