The Unlikely Tale of a Lost Friend Found

• Editor's note: In May, Anne Dreyfuss, a student at James Madison University, wrote a Commentary column about her stolen bike. Today, she updates her story. HARRISONBURG Isaw my bicycle chained with a thick lock outside a freshman dorm on my campus and I immediately started to cry.

I had ridden that bike across the United States in the summer of 2007. Four months ago, someone stole it off my front porch in Harrisonburg.

I had assembled my shiny new orange Trek 1000 SL in a park in Providence, R.I. I was there to start a charity bike ride across the country with Bike and Build, an affordable housing organization. The frame was beautiful, and the first time I rode her I felt like I was gliding through space. I was in love.

Three days after that first ride, I started the bike trek from Providence to Seattle. For the next 60 days, my hands hemmed the contour of the sleek drop bars, and my legs found harmony with the cyclical push-pull of my pedals. I spent about eight hours every day on the saddle of that bicycle. Over time I felt like part of my soul had entered her aluminum frame.

Even after the trek ended, my bike and I were inseparable. I commuted on it to and from class every day at James Madison University, took it for rides in the Shenandoah Valley on weekends, and every night I locked it to a post on my front porch.

Every night, except the night I forgot.

I called the police to report the theft, and a Harrisonburg police officer showed up at my door. As I frantically explained the situation, he smiled and nodded.

"Do you have a serial number?"

I rode this bike across the country, had it shipped from Seattle to my home in Reston, carried it to Harrisonburg on a bike rack on my car, and rode it every single day while I was here. But to write down the numbers engraved on the bottom bracket never occurred to me. I etched my soul onto this bike. But no, I did not have the serial number.

The officer told me that without a serial number, there was almost no chance I would ever see the bike again. He gave me his card, wished me good luck, and drove away.

In the weeks after it was stolen, I continued to check for my bike at community centers and police stations. Everyone I spoke to told me it was gone forever and that looking for it was a waste of time. I didn't want to accept that my bike was gone, but after months of searching endlessly and finding nothing, I began to accept that it was.

Now, four months later, my bike was in front of me, its orange frame worn but glowing in the late afternoon sun.

I called the police again, this time to report a found bike. A different officer arrived, and he also asked for proof that this was my bike. I still didn't have a serial number. By law, I couldn't have my bike back without it. I protested: I have pictures; I have journal entries! See this scar on my right knee? My bike has a scar, too, on the right side of the top frame. It's from when we got the front wheel stuck in train tracks and flipped 360 degrees onto the gravel of South Main Street.

The officer held his ground. Without paperwork, this bike -- which is mine -- was not mine. According to the law, the case was closed. But I refused to give up. I locked the bike with my own lock and took off the back wheel. I was going to prove this bike was mine. Somehow.

The next day I called Bike and Build. They issued my bike to me; they must have the serial number. The person I spoke to told me they don't have records from 2007, but I could call Zane's Cycles in Connecticut. They used to get bikes from there.

I called Zane's and the woman on the phone told me she'd check, although she wasn't sure if their records went back that far. I spelled my name for her and waited. This was my last chance. If they didn't have information about my bike, I had no way to prove to the police that it was mine.

She entered my name into the computer. "I don't see any bikes under this name."

My heart sank. I asked if she had any record of a bike being shipped to Providence in May of 2007. She snorted and told me they shipped thousands of bikes every month.

I could tell she was getting frustrated by my persistence. But I stayed on the phone.

"Could you try spelling it again? Maybe it didn't register the first time."

She hesitantly complied. I waited.

"Oh, Anne Dreyfuss? I must have forgotten the extra 's'. I've got your shipment information here with the serial number. Should I fax it to you?"

And there it was: After being told over and over that I'd never find my bike. After finding it and not being able to prove it was mine. After calling and arguing and persisting and not giving up, I finally had everything I needed to get my bike back.

That afternoon, I called the Harrisonburg Police Department for a final time. When I handed the documents to the officer, he happily cut the lock. Finally, my bike was mine again.

I got back on the saddle, relaxed into the familiar grip on the handlebars, and my body shifted into gear. As we sped past the traffic on Main Street, I caught our reflection in a large store window -- a flash of orange and black, two figures working as one, with an infinite ribbon of road ahead.
Anne Dreyfuss is a senior at James Madison University. Contact her at .