I left a mid 60's lower-end Gitane road bike with all original components (and bright orange paint!) locked with the flimsiest cable lock to a busy bike rack in an unsecured parking garage in the financial district in San Francisco.
I bought it to commute to my job at the time in the building next to the garage and didn't know much about frame sizing then. It was $20 ( which was affordable) and orange (which was...safe?) I'm 5'9" tall with a 32.5" inseam and it had a 60cm frame so it took me only a paycheck or two for me to build a better ride. I left the Gitane there for one purpose. Riding around Telegraph hill for my 30 minute lunchtime Golden Boy Pizza/Gina & Carlo whiskey chug fun run that could bail me out of the worst of days. Which were becoming every day.
Before you rush to judgement, I was working as the Assistant-Assistant-Facilities Manager for a tanking asbestos litigation firm at the time. Defense attorneys and counsel. I was quickly promoted for doing nothing else other than not ever **** up, which many of my co-workers apparently had a harder time with. I liked that I was making more money, but I also had to learn fast how to manage a staff of a dozen. And actually dress sharp for work, which was still a very physical job- running up and down three floors with multiple mail carts, faxing, filing, copying, handling reception and the telephone system. I was 21 years old at time and the youngest of all of the staff. I performed very well against all odds, but it was clear that this was not anything resembling a future for me. The high points were filling in for the regular bike messenger service for court runs (buddies that used to become gracefully 'unavailable' when they knew I needed to get out of the office for a bit. I argued to the higher ups that I had a bike and prior court filing and process server experience (the legal world is a close, dense market for jobs) and that's all they needed to send me on my way on any given day. It was a good distraction but I would always return to an empty mail room, broken equipment, or my capable staff getting into a shouting match with an attorney or the UPS agent.
The final straw was when I got back from one of said lunches and my own manager told me that I had to fire the receptionist that afternoon. He only said that she had "a confrontation with one of the partners" (which wasn't a complete surprise to me) and he would explain the rest later. Which I was just about to do when I discovered the backup receptionist passed out drunk and snoring loudly in the bathroom stall next to me, empty schnapps bottle on the floor (Which wasn't a complete surprise, either). I didn't hire either of them, but I couldn't see how firing both of them on the same day would make things any easier for anyone. I wasn't about to leave him slumped there with his pants up, so I crawled under the stall door and pulled him out fast, shuffling down the back hallways and service elevator before waiting for a cab with him downstairs. I guess the journey was enough to sober him up some- he was lucid enough realize what was going on. He was only mildly belligerent and I told him I'd give him a story to stick to if anyone asked. I rushed back upstairs and pulled the other doomed receptionist aside and casually asked her if she wanted to work there. She said 'not really,' which made the firing process pretty much effortless. I told my manager that schnapps had left due to a 'family emergency' which then left only me to cover the reception desk. My first call was to schnapps. He picked up immediately. I asked him if he was coming in tomorrow? He said no faster than I could finish. I told him I'd cover for him and write a letter of recommendation while he worked out his 'family emergency.' Did I want to work there anymore? No. Was I coming in tomorrow? Nope.
After I quit I didn't forget about it, but I had learned much more about bikes by then and reasoned that I had no need for an oversized frame, steel rims, brittle aluminum stem and bars and other French curiosities. I had honest intentions to retrieve it at some point to sell or donate but couldn't be bothered to hop on a bus and go get it. It was six months later that I was driving my car near there and thought I'd check on it. It was immediately visible from the street to the far end of the garage where I had it parked, maybe 100 feet away. There it sat, dusty and unmolested with visible but superficial corrosion. I knew I definitely fit it in of my Honda Civic if I removed the front wheel and seatpost but I didn't have any tools with me.
That was 2006. Corner of Francisco and Montgomery streets. In the unlikely case it's not scrap metal by now, please take it away.