Our front-page article in early September about a boy whose new bike was stolen really tugged at the old heartstrings.

Readers were quick to offer to replace his wheels, and Kristian Parrett didn't have to hoof it for long. He was back pedaling another new bike in no time.

When I was near his age, I awoke on a normal summer day, ate breakfast and headed outside to jump on my own two wheels, only to find a bare lawn where I had dismounted the night before.

I lived in a very small town, you know, the kind you could walk through in about five minutes. So the chances of a serial bike theft ring lifting my ride weren't good.

I alerted all the neighborhood kids I could, and I set out, on a borrowed bike, to search. About a half hour later, a friend rode up and said he had found it, back behind the only tractor repair facility in town.

I made a bee-line for the alley and sure enough, there was my red and white Schwinn, undamaged and seemingly no worse for wear.

As I pulled it up and hopped on, one of the mechanics strolled out, and said, "hey kid, sorry about that, but I wanted to take a ride last night." The full story was relayed to me later, the mechanic had imbibed a little, and felt walking no longer suited him that evening. My bike was the closest thing to transportation available.

A day later, I'd forgotten all about the episode. My bike and I were reunited, and all was well with the world.

I went through about four bikes in my first 15 years, some hand-me-down, some shiny and new. I loved them all. My twin brother and I would ride out north of town with our bamboo fishing poles and fish for trout in the creek that bordered town. We'd ride down to the swimming pool every day in the summer, and there were many excursions to interesting places a mile or two on the outskirts of town with friends.

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Once I got into high school, I was ready to step up to a 10-speed. I looked around for awhile, and finally found the one I wanted. It was a Schwinn Le Tour, bright blue and very racy looking. I was a tad too short for it, but you never would have been able to convince me of such.

I started putting miles on it, heading out of town on the highway, seeing if I could get at least a mile or two further than the previous day.

The Le Tour was great - it almost felt like just the weight of my legs was enough to keep a steady speed once I got up some momentum.

The 10-speed stayed with me as I moved away to college in Bozeman. It made the trip to Pocatello for further education, then on to Grand Junction, Colo., which was a fantastic area for cycling.

The blue bike finally ran out of gas about 10 years later. After a few years of outdoor storage, parts that were black and greasy were now dry and rusty. I had to say goodbye.

By then, I was on to the newest fad - mountain biking. I'd bought a Specialized Hard Rock and found that all of a sudden I didn't need a well-paved road to ride - those only got in the way.

After a few years, I grew weary of the bone-shattering jolts delivered to various parts of my body via the Hard Rock, and was searching for the next big thing.

I guess I wasn't searching too hard. It took me until just recently to get excited about pedaling the miles away again.

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Nowadays I can be found cycling on the Centennial Trail whenever a free hour or two can be found. And I have to admit, the new Scott Speedster puts my old Le Tour to shame. The Scott is easily less than half the weight, and I have 27 speeds at my disposal. The tires and wheels are thin and stealthy compared to the ones on the Schwinn.

So if you're on the Trail, give me a wave on the way by. I'll be the guy on the black and white Speedster - trying to get a mile or two farther than yesterday.

Jerry Hitchcock is a copy editor for The Press. He can be reached at 664-8176 Ext. 2017, or via email at jhitchcock@cdapress.com.