The Londoner’s stolen bike double-take

The officer sounded as excited as I was: "We've had our suspicions about a certain figure for some time.

When we searched his flat we found this bike. It sounds like yours, right down to the bell that you described."

What a break: this had been the third bike to go in 16 months.

The first was my fault — I'd nipped into a shop in Kensington High Street and thought it would be fine outside for five minutes without a lock.

The second had gone in November, ripped from a stand in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

The latest disappeared from the side of my house in West Kensington, from behind an 8ft-high, locked garden door. None had been insured.

Whatever the modus operandi of the thief, the moment of discovery is the same.

You come to where you secured your bike, ready to ride off, and you perform a theatrical double-take

Your hands come out in front of you in a mime of a man in thought.

Even as the truth sinks in, a part of you believes it is a misunderstanding, that you left it somewhere else today, that (silly you!) you did not ride to work, that — bizarrely, strangely, unlikely-as-it-may-seem and particularly-unlikely-because-she-is-still-in-the-kitchen — your wife has chosen this day to climb on your bike and ride off.

Then you look up and down the street, peering with suspicion at those happy cyclists who still have bikes.

You look for hoodies riding unnaturally elegant frames. You pause by every set of cycle stands. And you know, in your heart of hearts, that you will never see your bike again.

That's the experience of most of the 20,000 of the 21,000 or so Londoners who report bikes stolen in a year.

Cycling groups reckon as many as 80,000 bikes are actually taken, with many owners reporting the theft only if they need a crime number to claim on insurance.

There are lots of things you can do to prevent theft, of course.

If you run your own company, you can carry your bike into your office with you, like my friend does.

Or you can take a handsome new bike and cover it with emulsion paint so it doesn't look worth stealing.

Or you can carry around so many locks of such weight that they will discourage thieves for a little longer.

But all these solutions eat up a little of the joy; the joy of convenience, the joy of bright enamel paint in primary colours, the joy of arriving for meetings knowing it will take only a moment to lock and go.

Some riders get a little sentimental about their bikes.

The Cycle Touring Club's internet discussion forums are full of enthusiasts bonding affectionately over frames and gear sets and chains that run like silk.

I'm not there, as I realised when I tried to recall all the bikes I've had stolen since coming to London in 1981.

It's at least nine, but the only ones that stand out are a beautiful sky blue Condor and a Bianchi that took me from Land's End to John O'Groats.

And, now that it's gone, the latest. But thanks to this energetic policeman, perhaps we are to be reunited.

So, after a night's sleep disturbed by dreams of riding fast, I rush to Fulham, where the detective sergeant proudly shows me the recovered goods:I recognise the bike immediately. Straight handlebars, narrow tyres, mudguards and pannier rack — speedy through traffic, neat enough to ride in a suit.

A £700, lightweight beauty in matt charcoal. It's the very model.

But not, sadly, my own. The rack is different. The pedals are not the same.

I'd bruised my frame — this one's brand new. We stare a little accusingly at the bell, as if it had breached its promise.

Yet I am strangely cheered. The police are after the bike thieves, eager to reunite us with our property.

"We'd had our suspicions about this man when we found him with bolt cutters in his bag. He denied stealing this, of course.

He said he'd bought it from a drug dealer. But at least we can do him for handling stolen goods."

So I'll give it another go, buy the next bike, weigh the cost of insurance against the price of theft.

I shall make a note of the frame number, and mark it with whatever special numbers, codes and magic fluids my new friends the police suggest.

And if you're missing an immaculate Sirrus Comp, get in touch with the CID at Fulham.

They'd love to get it back to you.