The Unstealable Bicycle

Today I went outside and, to my amazement, the bicycle I had left there a week ago was... still there.
I should not have been amazed, though you will be when you discover what Logans have known for about two and a half weeks:

I own the Unstealable Bicycle.

It is the ultimate expression of risk vs. reward. No-one is tempted, in his heart of hearts, to possess this bumbling bucket of bolts, this tarnished tintinnabulation, this cantankerous contraption of concomitant cacophony.

As this close-up shows, the most rudimentary review reveals a rig overwrought with rust. Only the thickest thief would think, therefore, of threatening this, though the thrill or the thought of thrift, though theoretical, throws theft as theory through the thistling throngs.

The orange road works sign has changed position since last week, yet the Unstealable Bicycle (U.B.) remains. Who knows what future archaeologists may make of this device, millennia hence, when the city is reduced to rubble and only the U.B. is left, chained to nothing?

These were not things I pondered as I took the $3 lock off my $5 bike and rode down to 17th Ave. My thoughts were more on the lines of:
"There's a lot of road works going on."
"Too fat for the revolution. So fat."
"I don't think anything has been built in this town since Calgary '88."
"If I change lanes, will I avoid this staggering vagrant?"
"That bear's gonna need a bigger boat."
"I need to start braking three seconds before I see something worth braking for, or I will be a grease spot."
"If a mirror reverses left and right, how come it doesn't reverse up and down?"
"I can still feel seven... no, six... of my fingers."
"Drink this. I made it just for you."