There is sentimental value in the strangest things.
It's not really about the bike. Because it is old and there are bigger/better/faster ones on the market. I can't afford a new one at the moment, but someday I will.
But my dad gave me those baskets before I left for grad school in Boston. It was my car over there. I knew how it worked, how it felt. It took me everywhere. Lately, it was *still* my car. It was my moms, then it was mine. I loved that bike.
Who knows if I'll ever see it again. If you see some punk ass mother fucker riding or selling an old white TRECK with green and black mesh baskets on the sides, kick him in the balls and take it back for me.
This isn't helping my outlook on the world.