HOW I STOLE MY BIKE BACK
When Kelson Da Cruz’s bike was stolen, he felt like someone had cut off his legs. So he decided to track down the thieves, ‘ Rasta’ and ‘ The Frogman’ – and steal his treasured possession back.
YOUR BIKE BECOMES A PART OF YOU. AND TO LOSE IT, TO HAVE IT STOLEN… IT’S LIKE SOMEONE CUTTING OFF YOUR LEGS, MAN!
Kelson Da Cruz is a Brazilian surfer living in Cape Town. Actually, that’s not quite true; he was a Brazilian surfer living in Cape Town. He’s still Brazilian, and he’s still living in Cape Town, but he gave up surfing when he fell in love – with cycling.
Inevitably, he was naturally good at cycling, and then got better. Soon he was competing beyond his suburban weekend clique, competing in races – and doing not just well, but smashing it. Podium finishes. At the age of 45, Kelson was a little late to semi-professional cycling, but he’d found his gift.
He was deeply enamoured by what he could achieve on a simple machine. “It’s only transportation,” I’d say. But Kelson just laughed: “You don’t understand, man!”
You see, Kelson and I used to share a bromance of sorts. It was a surfing thing: he was willing to waste an entire afternoon waiting for a wave, with little to no chance of success. He was someone who would watch your back when it got big, or when you did something stupid. Basically, someone who would call the NSRI if you got blown out on the offshore, and not make you pay for it later at the pub.
We surfed many waves over many years, braaied hand- caught crayfish and shmokkeled perlemoen dinners, rice and beans, beer and bonfires.
( This all unfolded over several years BC (Before Cycling). These days, if I suggest a cheeky little surf, he responds: “No way, man, what if I injure myself and can’t race on the weekend?”)
Then I moved to Durban, and our friendship shifted to Facebook. Our touch points are photos of my kids, or his cycling news. Like the time he had a major crash (“Luckily, the bike wasn’t scratched!”). Or the “feeling silly” New Year’s boast that he’d cycled 20 400 kays in 2016. “That’s Cape Town to Durban via Bloemfontein every month,” I shot back. “You could have visited me six times!”
But one day, he showed up in my feed with a post titled: “Robbing the robbers”. I immediately thought back to what he’d once told me regarding his relationship with his bike.
“When you’re riding those distances all the time, your bike becomes a part of you. And to lose it, to have it stolen… it’s like someone cutting off your legs, man!”
His weapon of choice was the Fondriest TF2, which he bought in 2014 for R80 000. He chose light and rigid components, so the power he puts in is transferred into speed in the most economical way.
He’d been racing in Stellenbosch – the One Tonner, a zippy 170km jaunt through the winelands.
“Awesome weather for riding, no wind, not too cold.” He was in A batch and mixing it up with the racing snakes; but around the 80km mark, he heard a strange noise from his bike. “I looked everywhere, and couldn’t work out what it was. I decided to keep going with the peloton, because you’d give your little finger to stay in the draft.”
The group came to a hill, and Kelson stood up to climb it. When he sat back down, he received a nasty surprise: his carbon saddle was gone. He pulled over, and saw the saddle behind him on the road. He managed to retrieve it before it was crushed under the wheels of a car. “I saved myself 3 000 bucks – but unfortunately, my race was over.”
A Good Samaritan on the side of the road had a medical kit, and Kelson managed to
YOU GONNA GET KILLED! AND THEN I THOUGHT ABOUT MY BIKE, MY BIKE, I WAS SO CLOSE...”
tape his saddle back in place with Elastoplast – he could finish, rather than being collected at 4pm by the sweep with all the other dead bodies.
Kelson managed to attach himself to a B-batch group, and had to endure horrible stink- eye the rest of the way for riding in their slipstream and not doing any dog work up front. After the ride, he decided to meet an old friend for a pizza in Stellenbosch before making the mission back home.
Great lunch, good chat. But when Kelson returned to his car, he discovered that his treasured bike was gone. The back window of his car had been smashed, and his bike had been removed. (They left his saddle.)
“I shouted out to my mate, ‘Straight to the police!’”
As they turned into the main road, Kelson noticed a security guard on a bicycle. It turns out the guard had been chasing the bike thief. So Kelson tried to continue the pursuit himself – cutting corners, shooting through red robots, and ramping over speed bumps.
“I’m normally that guy in front of you who drives at 40km/ h on a 60km/ h road, and everyone behind is hooting. Yes, that’s me – the middlefinger collector!”
Unfortunately, the chase led nowhere. The bike thief was gone. Kelson headed to the police station.
“I’m pushing Mr Policeman to look at the security cameras at the crime scene, question witnesses, contact informants. I know if we move quickly, we can recover my bike.”
But it’s a Sunday afternoon, and the cop isn’t really feeling the urgency.
“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” he shrugs.
“I had this sinking feeling, and I realised, Kelson, you’re
alone in this…” So he packed up his things, slumped back into his car and drove home – a sick feeling in his stomach all the way.
“All I want is to get under my duvet and sleep, I’m down big time – but suddenly I hear my guru Bob Marley singing, ‘Get Up, Stand Up!’”
Kelson jumped on his computer and started to carpet-bomb the internet: Twitter, Facebook, online bike classifieds, Cash Crusaders, bike shops... “I flooded the network with photos of my stolen bike – my bike became famous, trending, viral.”
He received loads of responses; but they were all bicycling fundis who knew the pain of having a treasured bike stolen, commiserating with him.
So he got under the duvet, and went to sleep.
GOING TO WAR… WITH A BUTTER KNIFE
“I wake up in the morning and decide to go for a ride on my training bike. There’s nothing like a nice ride to lift the spirits. As I hit the road, I slowly make peace with the idea of never seeing my race bike again. I even contemplate racing with my training bike – which is like going to war with a butter knife, while my shaved-leg enemies have the latest hi-tech bazookas,” he laughed.
But when he got home he checked his messages, and there was a lead: someone had tried to sell a bicycle to a cyclist in Stellenbosch – and it matched the description of Kelson’s bike. The cyclist forwarded the photo of the bike, and the cell phone number of the person selling it.
The photo was dark, and poor quality, but Kelson could clearly see that it was his bike – and what’s more, it had no saddle!
“I made contact with the bad guy, and after a long negotiation on the phone ( you got to be cool), we settled on a price of R8 000. The bad guy wanted to meet me in a dark alley outside Stellenbosch, but I refused, saying I wasn’t from the area, and downtown was the only place I knew.”
Kelson was pumped. He dressed up for the meeting. He needed to blend in, so he put on shorts, a hemp T-shirt and flip-flops. Then he realised that flip-flops were no good if he needed to run for his life... so he put on a pair of running shoes!
“As I was leaving home, this inside voice hit me: What are you doing, man? Are you crazy? You gonna get killed! And then I thought about my bike, my bike, I was so close...”
Kelson figured he needed a bit of a back-up plan – or, as he put it: “Someone to watch over my ass.” He phoned his mate in Stellenbosch, and they hatched a plan. A few plans, actually.
“Plan A: my mate and his friend are watching from a distance. When the bad guy arrives with my bike to meet me, they get there at the same time. We push the bad guy aside, and rescue my bike.
“Plan B: I get my hands on the bike, and scream for help.
“Plan C: I pay the bad guy the cash, and buy my bike back. ( But I really don’t like this one!)
“Plan D: the shit hits the
fan, I throw some cash into the air, and I run for my life.”
So Kelson arrived in Stellenbosch and met up with his friend, and they waited for the bad guy to make contact. The designated time came and went. Kelson’s mate had to go back to work – he was on his own. Of course, suddenly his pocket buzzed. The SMS told him to go to a Stellenbosch rugby- club car park.
“Very soon, a skinny rasta guy arrives. About 1.7m tall, with dreadlocks down to his knees, but he’s empty-handed. So he explains the bike will arrive soon, and then the deal can be done.”
They started chatting, and to Kelson’s surprise they got along quite well. “I check out his physique and think he has the potential to become a true cycling climber. If he just trimmed his dreadlocks (that would shave a few kilos off), stops the doobie, and maybe, maybe... Then I think, This guy’s NEVER gonna stop the doobie!, so I let go of my thoughts of social responsibility and focus on my bike again.”
A few minutes later another bad guy arrived, driving an avocado- green Corsa Lite Sport. And on the back seat of the car was Kelson’s bike.
“This guy, let’s call him ‘The Frogman’, he looked nervous. He was flabby; he had no hope of being a cyclist. If he worked hard, maybe an average runner. He was also about 1.7m, early 30s, about 90kg.”
The Frogman took the bike from the back seat, and tossed it on the ground. Kelson winced. “I just clench my teeth, man. I want to jump on his jugular, but Hold on, I think to myself, don’t blow your cover now, you’re so close!”
I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER
The bike needed some attention. The chain was off, so Kelson got to work, putting the chain back in place and setting up the wheels properly.
“It took some time to get the chain working and The Frogman started to grow impatient. He wanted to get the cash and get out of there, quickly.”
So The Frogman bent down to try to help.
“I said, ‘I know what I’m doing, I’m a cyclist.’ But I was really thinking, Get your dirty hands off my bike, man!”
“Finally I get the wheel spinning, and she’s ready! But the odds are stacked, two against one. It’s time to make my move: I come up with a spontaneous Plan E. ‘Hey guys,’ I say, ‘I need to ride the bike, so I can check the carbon frame for any cracks. If it’s all good, it’s a deal.’ And to seal it, I pull the roll of cash out of my pocket. R8 000, in a nice neat bundle of leopards!”
The bad guys’ eyes followed the money, and they agreed to let Kelson test the bike.
“I get on and look around, try to assess the situation. The Frogman has no chance in a short sprint, he’s just too heavy. But if he got enough momentum he could be a problem. So the sprint can’t be too long. Rasta’s the dangerous one: light, agile… but his lungs are full of doobie. I doubt they could sustain a sprint longer than 30 metres.
“So, I decide my strategy: the sprint must be around 100 metres. I look around. Across the parking lot is the clubhouse, just about the right distance. And I know that’s the finish line, my goal. No second or third place. I need to win. This time, only a win will do!”
Kelson threw his leg over the bike – and that’s when he realised the snag in his plan: there was no saddle! “But come on, I’m not doing a tour here, it’s only 100 metres. I can stand for 100 metres, easy. I relax. I’m ready for the sprint of my life – or is it for my life?
“I drop all the power over the crank, and the bike responds beautifully, as if she was waiting for that moment. The sprint was so powerful, the bad guys had no chance. Both just stood there, dumbfounded. I look back and I know I’ll win this race, so I cross the finish line and ride the bike straight into the sports club’s reception area. I look back, and there’s no sign of Rasta and The Frogman – it’s all over.
“The receptionist of the sports club looks up, surprised, and I shout: ‘Call the cops!’”
But the thieves were long gone. Kelson packed his bike into the back seat of his car, and drove home. “I looked back and there it was, my bike, resting peacefully. I cranked up the music. I had just won the best race of my life…”