The bike owner used a massive chain and hefty lock to secure his bike to a pole. He had a delivery to make at the nearby Terrific Tenements. He was only away for half an hour or so as he located the address, dashed up a couple of flights, and got a signature for his delivery.

When he returned, the front wheel of his bike was gone. In an iffier neighborhood, he’d have popped off the front wheel and run the chain through it to prevent just this scenario. Now he was stranded.

Angry at the thief and angrier at himself for his laxness, he pulled out his iPhone and requested an Uber. Four minutes. In New York City, that could mean twelve, with traffic, double parking, out-of-order stoplights. He watched the progress of his ride on the phone.

Wham! He was suddenly viciously shoved from behind. As he stumbled forward, his phone was ripped from his hand. He fell, landing on his face, barely aware that his pockets were rifled. He never saw the thieves. He didn’t hear them, or know how many there were.

His Uber arrived a few minutes later. He dragged himself up, bloodied and bruised, and hobbled to the car.

“What happened, man?”

“Thugs,” was all he could manage, “my phone’s gone. And my front wheel.” He patted his pockets and shuddered, emerging from his shock. “Uh, also my wallet and keys.”

“Aw, brutal, man. Here, catch the blood.” The driver thrust a wad of Dunkin Donuts napkins for the injured man’s scraped face and cut hand.

“Shit, they got my bike lock key. I can’t even take my bike. Or what’s left of it.” The biker stared up at the sky for a moment and blotted his face. The driver waited patiently.

“D’you have a wrench, by any chance?”

“Sure, man, I have a tool bag in the trunk.” The driver popped open the trunk and spilled out his tool collection.

The bike rider picked out a wrench, a couple of screwdrivers, and a set of Allen wrenches. He went to work on his bike, removing first the saddle and its post, then the pedals, chain, rear wheel, handlebars with cables and accessories, the fenders, the rear rack, the kickstand, the seat post, and the brakes. He put each piece of his bike into the trunk, finally wiping his hands on the Dunkin Donuts napkins.

“Maybe I can get another key and come back for the frame,” he said, “or maybe it’s not even worth it. I think I’m done with biking in this city.” He rubbed his face, the unbloodied side, submindful of the time he sped into the opening door of a parked car, shattering the bones in his face. “I’ll sell these parts. Better than letting the thieves get it all.”
…

Or, was the bike stripped by thieves?

Maybe thieves did get it all. I saw this bike, or what was left of it, in the Hell’s Kitchen area of New York City a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t the only bicycle remains I saw still locked to poles, but it was the cleanest.

Wonder about that writing on the sidewalk? It’s a quote from Bob Dylan’s Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power). Improperly punctuated (“where’s”), but has to make you wonder what else happened on this spot.