Still no official race results! None. Zero. (Are you listening, Baz? Come on, buddy. Put ’em up. You’re killing me.)

In the meantime, we’re just all going to have to chat about something else. Something like bike theft.

After the 50K race, I still had one day left to tool around Yosemite, and while I felt better than someone who recently ran 33.5 miles should, hiking wasn’t looking all that exciting. But biking! I could bike, right? Whole different set of muscles. So I cruised over to the bike rental shop, filled out the form promising not to sue them if I managed to kill myself and picked out my not-at-all shiny, not-at-all new bike. In fact, it was a piece of crap. I had a better bike in the third grade. Hell, it might have BEEN the bike I had in the third grade. It was old enough and beat up enough. But hey, I wasn’t feeling picky. It would do. Besides, it was red. It matched my sunglasses.

My husband grabbed one of his own – managing to get the one nice bike they had – and we were off. Now might be the time to mention that each bike was clearly marked with a four digit number. Mine was 5027. It might seem odd that, having glanced at the number once to read it off to the bike shop lady, I would remember it. Or even odder that I still remember it several days later, but that’s only because you don’t live in my head. I have no idea what my own cell number is, but bike codes I’ve got forever. I’m quirky that way.

Our first stop was Mirror Lake, a short ride away. The path to the lake is paved, but there is a sign that very clearly states you must leave your bike in the rack about a quarter mile out. I don’t know why, but there was a sign. And I am a world class rule follower, so I left the bike. Without a lock. Rental bikes in Yosemite don’t come with locks because A) there’s very little crime there and B) who the hell would want a piece of crap bike like that anyway? So Austin and I left the bikes and proceeded to hike the short distance up to the lake.

I’m not sure about other national parks, but Yosemite attracts a very large percentage of international visitors. I’d ballpark it at 50%. It’s a fun little bonus hearing the different accents and watching someone try to explain “burrito” to a foreign guest. So when a group of Chinese tourists on bikes – one of which was red – flew past us, flagrantly violating the “no bikes” sign, I simply assumed we were having a language barrier. Poor little tourists, I thought. Having trouble with the sign. Okay, yes, part of my brain went, “Hey, that looks like my bike!” But there are LOTS of red bikes, right? RIGHT?!

So when Austin and I returned to the rack to find his nice new bike there and my crappy one stolen, I was only half surprised and wordlessly went flying back up the trail toward the Chinese tourists.

The Pollyanna part of my brain, the nice Midwestern girl part, was saying, “Oh, this is probably just a cultural difference. Maybe in China, bikes are communal. Maybe there, it’s okay to just take a bike that clearly isn’t yours and…” Then the L.A. part of my brain went, “Fuck that shit. Gimme my fucking bike back, you douche bag!”

(This is also the part of my brain that makes it unsafe for me to be behind the wheel in other parts of the country, having gotten used to driving on the 405.)

I found the bike, the bike clearly marked number 5027, on the side of the trail. The thief was many yards down, allowing me to simply take it back, which I did. He watched me do it. I watched him watch me do it, glaring at him, challenging the little dung beetle to say something. He didn’t. And for the first time in my life, I was disappointed in having avoided a confrontation. I was pissed. I was ready to do some yelling. I didn’t care if he wouldn’t have understood the words. There’s something to be said for tone. And hand gestures…And also for having your great big husband standing behind you, the German shepherd to your Chihuahua.

Not that we Chihuahuas can’t be fierce. Watch your ankles. We’re coming for you.