As I often do on a mild day, I skipped lunch to walk the five blocks from my office to the pedestrian bridge which crosses the lakeshore highway where I’d spend a half hour or so enjoying the view of the lake and the shore. Almost invariably I am alone, for this pedestrian bridge was condemned two years ago, and the city has yet to formulate a plan to have it reconstructed or removed. It seems solid enough to me, so I don’t mind ignoring the warning signs. The view is too good. Sometimes there are sunbathers down on the beach, though with limited access, they have to go a long way to reach this point. More often the beach is empty but for a few shore birds.

Today a bicycle stood propped against the balustrade. I’m not sure why, but I was reminded of my first bicycle. I was nine years old, and I’d saved my Christmas money and my birthday money to get it. For six glorious days I pedaled about the neighborhood, enjoying everything about the experience, but especially the freedom to go wherever I pleased, at least in theory. On the seventh day the bike was gone. Stolen from where I’d parked it in the bike rack of the town library. On the walk home I was angry, disheartened, and afraid. What would my parents say? I didn’t tell them for two days. Finally, at dinner one night, I blurted the truth. “Someone stole my bike.” “Oh honey,” my mom said, her voice both soothing but also disappointed. “It figures,” my dad said. “The way things are these days.” That was thirty years ago, but I still remember the tone of his voice and the constriction in my throat. Then two days later I was in the car with my dad, stopped at a gas station. Sometimes he let me work the pump while he went in for cigarettes. He was just coming back to the car when I saw my bike. An older kid was riding it. “Dad, Dad,” I cried. “That’s my bike. There.” I pointed. The kid and my bike were about to turn the corner. “Dad, do something. It’s my bike.” My dad only glanced at the thief as he made his escape. “Lots of bikes look like that,” he said. “Get in the car or we’ll be late.” I don’t remember where we were going. I do remember a feeling of both frustration and shame. Until then my father had been my hero.

All these years later, the bike propped against the balustrade could not have been mine. It was a girl’s bike, for one thing, and it was pink. I looked around. No one was nearby. Could the bike have been abandoned? I studied it carefully, though I have no idea what I was looking for. I had a strong urge to ride it. Not necessarily to steal it, but just to take it for a little spin. A couple of times around the block. Something like that. Yeah, I wanted to, but I knew it wouldn’t be right. I was torn. What would be the harm? I was about to touch the padded seat.

“Hey, what the fuck?”

It was a girl’s voice, and I turned to see the girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. “What the fuck you doing?” she yelped as she rushed up to me, grabbed the bike, and in a blur hopped on and pedaled away.

I was both stunned and embarrassed. I wouldn’t have really taken the bike. And this girl, this young woman, was accusing me of ... I hurried to the other side of the bridge and looked down at the roadway. She was pedaling off, her long ponytail flying behind her, and her dress, I guess it was some kind of beach garment, had ridden up enough to show a crescent moon of bare bottom. I couldn’t tell for sure if she was wearing underwear. I watched her until she was out of sight, and then I went back to work.