I bought a bike two days ago.
Every time I’d visit this particular town (about 30 minutes from where I live by bus), I’d stop by this bicycle dealer and have a look. I’ve wanted a bike ever since moving here but was discouraged by all the locals. They assured me that since there aren’t many bikes in the city (rare for China), the ones that are here stand out and are often stolen.
I wouldn’t be swayed, but I kept it in mind while picking one out. I wanted something very basic, plain, and cheap. Nothing that would draw attention. I finally settled on this:
As you can see, it’s about as basic as you can get for a bike. Brand new, it cost me about $20 US. At that price, it’s not even a big deal if it gets stolen. I want to paint it though. Not professionally, for fear of making it look too good, but I may take some spray paint to it or something.
Of course, once I purchased it the problem was getting it home. I assumed it’d be an easy thing to just follow the 606 bus I rode in on, but that proved impossible, since the bus enters a highway right after leaving the city. So I sat there, on my new bike, watching the traffic climb up the on-ramp and wondering how I’d get home. I finally spotted a little dirt road that ran under the highway and assumed this would be my best bet home. It wasn’t.
When the dirt (mud) road finally let out, I was in a strange part of town I’d never seen before. It was filled with factories, swamps, and hardware stores. I located the nearest bus stop and examined the routes for local busses. None of the stops looked familiar. Discouraged, I headed back to the dirt road.
As it turned out, the road I’d used followed a different highway. The one I wanted branched off of the overpass far above my head, so I didn’t notice. After another hour of riding around and examining the roads, I finally determined the general direction I needed to be heading in, and set off on a small strip of pavement next to an industrial runoff stream.
It was really a glimpse into another world. Small shops and restaurants were carved into the wall on my left, with patrons milling around smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. Women did laundry in old rusty sinks, sleeping babies strapped to their backs. A pack of mechanics deliberated under the hood of a truck, dark grease smeared across their faces and jumpsuits.
My shortcut finally let out onto a road with car traffic, and to my excitement a 606 bus crossed my path. I finally knew where I was. In another 20 minutes I was home, massaging my aching legs (my bike only has one gear) and taking swigs from a bottle of local beer.
Another day, another adventure.
