Funny story. I frequently used to drive my bike to the mall where they had a video arcade. I had a nice cable and trusty lock wrapped around the seat post at all times. The problem was that I was a lazy little brat, and seldom locked it up, including in the bike rack at the mall. One day, my stars were a little crossed and that bike began providing rides to someone with just a few less scruples than me. A frantic scouring of the rack and a few orbits of the mall left my stomach somewhere South of my ankle; and I had a long walk ahead of me. Suddenly every bike was candy-apple red, and every passing car was my mom pulling up to give me a ride in her brown '74 Chevy Guilt-wagon. I don't think my head has ever raced as fast as that since. With my heart sinking and every step becoming heavier, I spotted the colorful neon sign for the store where only a few weeks earlier I had grown intoxicated by the scent of fresh rubber and WD-40, the glint of chrome, and the subtle sounds of bike parts rubbing against each other, and now a burst of epiphany, a symphony in one quiet note. I stopped in and purchased a new cable and lock, sacrificing weeks of Star Castle and Galaxian. When I got home, I had to creep into the garage for a hack saw, then sneak off and saw up my new cable.
When I appeared in the front doorway about an hour later (son of a bitch cable!) with tears streaming down my face it was all cooing and comforting, though I think my parents were puzzled by my choice of a completely different brand of bike only available at a store way across town, when I had so dearly loved that Mongoose. Kids...