I encountered a bizarre scene the other morning, and I’m at a loss to understand it.

Hang with me, because I think the payoff’s worth it.

The other morning, right around 1:30, I was walking back from the presses, and, just before I headed back upstairs to conclude my worknight, I passed by the employee entrance and spied a bike outside.

It was a beaut, too: white, sparkly silver here and there, obviously well thought-out and maintained. A real head-turner. Not ruin-your-marriage nice (that’s foreshadowing, folks; stick with me and I just might break out all the literary devices at my disposal), but mighty nice.
I ogled … and was surprised to see it didn’t appear to be locked to the parking meter against which it was leaning. Odd. I wouldn’t leave the cheapest big-box-store bike unlocked on New Hampshire at that hour of the day, let alone a looker like that one, but I figured either I simply couldn’t see the lock, or its owner was somewhere nearby, keeping an eye on his/her pride and joy.

I went upstairs to my desk and finished up, occasionally glancing out the window to see if the bike was still there. I thought maybe it had been stolen and ditched. Or I was sure it was about to be stolen, and I wanted to keep an eye on it if its owner wasn’t.

Eventually, I grabbed my own bike and headed for the exit for my ride home.

As I approached the exit’s breezeway, I saw the bike was still there, still with no one in sight. The closer I got, the more the details emerged. It was a fixed-gear, or at least a single-speed … I’m guessing steel-framed, retro-looking … white handlebar tape (lovely, but difficult to keep clean) … silver toe clips. The closer I drew, the better it looked, though it appeared to be a bit on the small side for me.

Awful thoughts entered my head, but I’d never steal another person’s ride, even one as nice as that. I’d look, but not touch.

I was mere feet away when I noticed a car parked on the street just behind the bike. I had seen it before, but I had assumed it to belong to a co-worker. Since I had seen her leave a few minutes earlier, I realized it must belong to someone else.

I was maybe 10 feet away, and the thoughts were pingponging in my empty head like Jiffypop: Who would leave a bike all alone like that? Is it my size? Wow, look at the sparkly spokes. Is that movement in the back seat of the car? What brand is on the top tube? Yes, definitely movement. Somebody taking a nap? Definitely no lock. More movement now; not asleep. Ooh, sparkly.

I was close enough I could touch it when it finally hit me (and I’m sure you more astute readers figured it out long ago). I closed in on the bike to try to read its brand name, when I figured out what I saw in the back seat was … feet in the air. Bare feet in the air. In the back seat of the car.

I had walked into a very public bike booty call.

So I casually saddled up, discreetly waited until I was headed away before turning on my headlight and pedaled away.

All the way home, I pondered the scene, turning over the possibilities in my mind. I quickly discounted several more outlandish scenarios — a lady (or gentleman) of the evening making the rounds on the roll? A driver so consumed by bike passion he/she “rewards” cyclist with roadside quickie? A bike (or cyclist) so fine the feet just fly in the air? No, no, no.

By the time I got home, the best I could come up with was this: Boy meets girl at bar. Romance ensues. One of the new lovers drove to the pub, the other rode the bike. Alcohol flows, and the romance blossoms. Overcome by passion, and unable to find a more appropriate location to consummate their new friendship-with-benefits (the Eldridge was full, or roommates were home), the two parked their rides and horizontal-mambo’d in the back seat of a car parked on the very public — and quite well lit — location just north of Seventh and New Hampshire.

Whatever the explanation, I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Of the bike, that is, not the feet. As far as I could tell — easy, perv; I didn’t peep — they were quite ordinary feet.

(If anybody has a more plausible — or even more entertaining — explanation, I’d love to hear it, but, please, remember this isn’t Penthouse letters.)