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Friday August 18, 2017
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Hard Lessons

 

continued

"I am one country boy. I am one [expletive] naive country boy."

I recognized rage just below the surface of his normally easygoing demeanor. He pulled out a file and plunked down on the couch. This seemed serious. What had happened?

Miles seemed to find the information he was looking for, picked up his phone, then thought better of it, looked at me wearily, and explained.

He had ridden four blocks to the East Stadium Kroger to buy milk and bananas, or was it hot sauce? He had leaned his bike beside the store as he'd done before and dropped his kickstand, but, being a recent transplant from a village in Connecticut, left it unlocked.

I winced.

Naive country boy came out five minutes later, and the bike--a scratched-up white-aluminum-frame Specialized Sirrus with the "One less car" bumper sticker on the crossbar--was gone. The older man smoking on the nearby bench said he hadn't seen anything unusual. The manager and the baggers hadn't seen anything.

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