A long and shitty day at work last week was topped off by going to get on my bike to get home and finding, instead, a neatly cut through lock lying on the floor of the car park. The “secure”, swipe-card-accessed underground car park. Which means either somebody in the building stole it, or more likely, somebody let some low-life follow them in.
I liked my bike, but it was by no means the nicest bike there. It was almost five years old and had done, at a rough estimate, about 15,000 miles. It was pretty well used. If you had looked three spaces to your left, you would have seen a carbon-fibre road bike that didn’t even have the cable lock that mine did. It was probably worth three times what my mountain bike was, but then road bikes aren’t as popular with the sort of pikey who probably gave you £100 in cash for a bike that cost £1300 new, so you could buy your drug of choice.
A secondary fuck-you to the so-called security department at work who took three days to get back to me (after I had wasted an hour waiting, filling in forms etc when I wanted to be going home to see my family before midnight for the first time in 72 hours) with an email saying (I paraphrase) “We didn’t see anything on our cameras so tough shit.”
The average smackhead is only interested in how quickly they can move it rather than the absolute value.
If they are lucky they will get a £10 bag for every £100 that it can be fenced for, and then probably only for a maximum of half a dozen bags, so it might not be worth going for the more expensive machine - more risk, more conspicuous and only get the same amount for it.