<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8FX19ncyFB4/RqBNTKG4ljI/AAAAAAAABms/pEXkwVcHCl8/s1600-h/kbike.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089152570454742578" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_8FX19ncyFB4/RqBNTKG4ljI/AAAAAAAABms/pEXkwVcHCl8/s200/kbike.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The other day, when my friend Nathan complimented my bike, Jason said "Isn't it great? It's one of the things about Kristin that made me even more smitten. Just look at her on that bike!"</span>

My bike was one of my prize possessions even before I learned how it played a role in winning my husband.

I bought it for myself as a consolation prize, of sorts, when I moved to Champaign-Urbana, aka The Land of Flatness. This is a place where a heavy-duty, single-speed, coaster-brake bike doesn't seem completely impractical.<a href="http://www.kronan.com/Inventory/Navision/11519005?category=10,30&amp;menuS=Cykel"></a>

<a href="http://www.kronan.com/Inventory/Navision/11519005?category=10,30&amp;menuS=Cykel"> The bike</a> is made by a company called Kronan, and is a replica of the bikes used by members of the Swedish Army during the World War II era. I love thinking about the armies of peace-loving countries riding very Scandanavian-looking bikes that are as quaint as they are sturdy. It makes me want to design a "Bikes, not bombs" t-shirt. I also love the wheel-powered headlight, the back rack, and the built-in tire pump (Nathan said the casing looks like an exhaust pipe).

Although it's admittedly a very cool looking bike (and according to Jason, when I'm biking around in my skirt, I'm pretty cool-looking, too), I was drawn to the simplicity of the design, the functionality, and the idea of low-maintenance—with no gears or handle brakes, there's so much less to worry about breaking and fixing.

On a website called <a href="http://www.lifeiscarbon.com/weblog/2007/01/kronan.html">lifeiscarbon</a> (check out the line of <span style="font-style: italic;">underwear</span> Kronan makes along with the bikes!!!), they describe the Kronan as an "almost indestructible, tank-like bicycle." They add, "The design is simple, robust and without frills. Details such as wide handlebars, durable tires, anti-rust steel frame, with added zinc plated components, make a Kronan bicycle a great longterm investment. Unless it's stolen, it's likely to last longer than you do."

Yes, unless it's stolen. Which is, of course, what happened to my prized, longterm investment.

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About two years after I bought the bike, when it was still sparkling and perfect, it was stolen out of my garage. The garage door had been left up for about an hour one morning, <span style="font-style: italic;">while I was in the house with the kids,</span> and boom. It was gone. I was sick about it. I called the police and filed a report with the officer who came to the house to take the information. I assured him the bicycle was very distinct, and that it was the only one like it in town, so maybe someone would spot it, but he told me not to get my hopes up—stolen bikes were almost never recovered. Not even unique ones.

I made "missing bike" fliers with a photo and reward, the way people do for missing cats, then I dug my old bike out of the back of the garage and began riding it to the cafe and library and farmer's market. It wasn't the same, though. I was missing that little-kid-zest-for-life-wind-blowing-through-hair high that I got riding my Kronan. How could any other bike be the same?

After about two months of scanning every bike rack on campus and staring at every bike being pedaled down the street (and there are SO many bicyclists in this town), I gave up hope.

But, as is so often true of life, right when you stop desperately hoping and trying to make something happen, it happens on its own. My friends Kevin and Susan told me one fall Sunday morning that they were pretty sure they had seen my bike the night before, and that it was in the custody of the Urbana police.

They had been to a late movie Saturday night, and were driving home at about midnight down a busy five-lane road near the highway. A strange sight caught their attention: A man was <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">very unsteadily </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> riding a bike along the shoulder, carrying two 12-packs of beer. As Kevin and Susan joked about the dangers of drinking and driving, they passed the man and got a good look at the bike—mine. </span>

<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">They called the police, who told them to stay on the phone and trail the man until they could get there, so Kevin and Susan in their not-so-discreet red Volvo station wagon slowed to a crawl and followed this beer run volunteer down the busy street then into one of the less-desirable neighborhoods of Urbana. Finally, the police arrived and the man rode into a back yard, apparently ditching the bike before going into the house. </span>

<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Kevin and Susan sat watching from up the block, wondering how the police could ever prove the bike had been stolen, or who stole it. Suddenly, two cops came out of the house with the bike-riding man, threw him over the hood of the cop car, and handcuffed him. Apparently, the man on my bike, whether he was the one who stole it or not, had a warrant out for his arrest! Who would have imagined?</span>

When I finally set eyes on my bike again, after it spent another six weeks or so in the evidence room (or "bike pound") at the police station, it was a happy reunion. My Kronan wasn't without its battle scars—there were tears in the seat, the "license plate" was pried off, the headlight was dangling, and there were several scratches and some rust. It made me catch my breath, imagining the ways my poor bike had been abused and neglected while it was out of my care. But I gingerly sat on the seat that who-knows-whomgrac had sat on for the many weeks before, and pedaled us both home. My bike was lost, then found.

I've always loved the biblical images of being lost then found, from the lost sheep parable to the indelible words of Amazing Grace. It is indeed a truly amazing concept—being reunited with something precious, that you thought was lost for good. A bike is just a bike, when it gets down to it, but still...every time I touch the tears in the seat, I am touching a very real reminder of grace.

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