It was a sweaty Sunday afternoon when I realized my bicycle, Burt Bikearach, was missing in action. Approaching the courtyard of my midtown apartment complex, my eye was immediately drawn to a gap in the bike rack.

I halted. I gulped. And in a single moment, I became what I had always feared: yet another bitter Sacramentan with a case of the stolen bike blues.

A pristine 1979 Sears three-speed cruiser, Burt was truly one of a kind. His matte chocolate finish, accented by yellow and orange racing stripes, elevated him to the status of vintage eye candy, and his spacious basket easily accommodated my farmers market indiscretions.

Although he wasn't festooned with fancy grip tape or custom-painted wheels, Burt was built like a brick house, handling potholes and train tracks with a mighty, mighty grace.

Scanning the bike rack one final time, a pang of sorrow ripped through my gut like a sawtoothed rear sprocket.

I only paid 70 bucks for the thing, but my bike wasn't just a means of free transportation; it was an extension of myself – a vessel with which I meandered the alleyways less traveled and pedaled without fixed speeds or destinations.

And that's why I decided to bring the bike perps to justice.

My first order of business was to seek counsel from those who feel the sting of bike theft most viscerally: midtown-dwellers. Midtown bicycles often act as surrogate cars for their budget-conscious owners, and many customized rides cost more than a used vehicle.

Almost every grid-walker has a sad tale to tell about bike abduction. While those stories vary in scope, mine elicited a unanimous response – I chained Burt up with a cable lock, meaning I was basically asking for it.

I couldn't help but wonder if Burt felt the same way.

Frustrated yet undeterred, I journeyed on to the Sacramento Police Department's large property warehouse.

Inside a meticulously organized holding room, dozens of parentless bicycles wait to be claimed, the vast majority of which end up being donated to charities or sold at auction after a 90-day holding period.

Milt Payne oversees the bicycle division, which houses both "found" and crime-related bikes. Once in the police department's possession, a bicycle's serial number is checked against an extensive database of stolen property reports.

So far this year, 454 bike theft claims have been filed in Sacramento. That figure doesn't account for the undetermined number of cases that go unreported, like mine.

"Of the hundreds of bicycles we receive in a year," Payne explained, "I could probably count the number of claimed bikes on one hand."

This phenomenon is caused partly by the inoperable condition of many bikes in police custody, while others are being stored for safekeeping. Standing among so many unclaimed wheels and remembering that I never recorded Burt's serial number, a small piece of my heart rode away.

And what if one were to purchase a bike without a serial number?

"You might want to reconsider that purchase," Payne said. It's illegal to remove serial numbers from bikes, so shoppers should be wary of buying frames with scratched-out numbers.

In the absence of a serial number, Payne recommended that cyclists etch their driver's license number somewhere on the bike's frame.

With what seemed like no solid ground to ride on, I imagined for a moment that Burt relocated himself to a farm, where he was spending his days freewheeling across perfectly level terrain with a bunch of fresh hydrangeas in his basket.

Fueled by my melancholic fury, I decided to talk to some players in the Sacramento bike biz.

At Bike Builders on Franklin Boulevard, store manager Jim Dart didn't help rekindle my optimism for the two-wheeled cause.

"These people are really good at what they do," he said. "You can put any kind of lock on your bike, but if they want it, they'll probably find a way to get it."

I headed across the street to a separate warehouse where, behind a chain-link fence, hundreds of orphaned bicycles formed a mass metal graveyard. I briefly scanned the heap, just in case, but I wasn't there for 30 seconds when another employee emerged from the store and began running toward me, shouting angrily.

Like a true pedestrian, I fled, but on my way home I visited Back in Time, a small bicycle shop located at 24th and J streets.

I asked store owner Robert Wright if anyone had ever tried to sell him a stolen bicycle.

"I try not to cater to that sort of thing," he said, "but I have gotten a few bikes back for people before."

Scanning the selection that lined the sidewalk, I found myself wishing I were one of the lucky ones.

Walking home on L Street, bicyclists whizzed by me as I swallowed the unappetizing fact that my duet with Burt had reached its finale.

A little tougher and somewhat wiser than I was before, I had no choice but to set my sights toward the U-locks and record books of my future, remembering that Sacramento's underground stolen bike market is a vast and mysterious labyrinth – one I'd never imagine navigating on foot.