8/2/06
Imagine a combination of New York and Tiajuana. After six hours, that was my impression of Beijing. Beijing has all the energy and mass of New York, with a softer edge. It also has the “anything goes” feeling of a Mexican city. Not in the seamier aspects, but in the indomitable drive to survive and make a buck (or yuan) in sometimes difficult circumstances.
Beijing has more heavy cranes in operation than anywhere else in the world. It’s like Beijing is the “Cranes R Us” of the world. There is no other city with this amount of construction going on, partially due to the 2008 Olympics being held here. I’m not a New Age kind of guy, but the vibrant energy of this place is stunning.
As far as the actual trip goes, I can say without any reservation that flying coach for 17 hours is something to be avoided whenever and by whatever means possible. Claustrophobia can suddenly become very real to someone who never understood it before. Imagine every complaint you ever had about a flight: small, uncomfortable seats, large person in next seat (OK, that’s me), identifiable and unidentifiable strange odors, bad food, bad movies, crying babies, obnoxious toddlers, etc., etc.) and imagine 17 hours of it. I think that pretty much says it all.
The Beijing Capitol Airport was unexpectedly pleasant. I’ve always know that things have drastically changed in China, but as a child of the Cold War, I still envisioned all of the horrors portrayed in the movies of my youth. I walked off the plane half expecting to hear a dentist’s drill and a Chinese Lawrence Olivier asking “Where are the diamonds?”
Instead, I breezed through an efficient baggage retrieval system and customs was almost painless. Except for the Cold War look I got from the security officer who stamped my passport, everyone was very courteous. The only potential problem I had, I caused myself due to my preconceptions.
While preparing for the trip, I had always kept in mind “Chinese Customs”, usually with the visual of a small dark room from which I would never leave. I left behind prescription painkillers because the label had fallen off and been lost. I scoured my laptop to make sure no political or pornographic traces could be found. I left my confirmation bible at home. I wasn’t going to take any chances with Sir Lawrence.
With this frame of mind, I was on the plane worrying about what I had missed when the flight attendant hands me three forms I must fill out before we arrive. Most of it was just the usual stuff; name, address, purpose of visit, etc. Then I came to the customs sheet and read the prohibited items. Somewhere in the middle, like a trick question, is CDs and computer memory items. The attendant surprised me by asking if I was alright. Apparently I was a little pale and breathing somewhat funny. I waved her off and considered my situation. I marked the spot noting that I did have these items. I'm glad I waited practically until touchdown to complete the forms. Thirty minutes of that nauseous feeling was quite enough. Upon arriving at customs (Chinese Customs!) I was directed to the short line: the line where everyone else discreetly glances at you and shivers.
At this point I was glad that the airline food was bad. Had I eaten much I might have been in danger of a sanitary mishap. The clerk read my form and politely asked “What are CDs?” Mind you, this was their form. Any attempt at a verbal explanation wasn’t going to cut it, so I unlocked my suitcase (more of a trunk actually) and rooted around for my jacket of software backups. As I handed him my Word, Acrobat, Symantec and other programs, hands shaking, he nonchalantly said “Oh, that’s OK! I set a record for a repack and headed for the taxi line.
It goes to show you, scary movies can haunt you years and years later. All in all I was out of the airport in 1 hour with no hassles. I was already tasting that first beer. Alright, the first three.
Giving directions to my taxi driver was challenging and a precursor for my first few months. I only had an address in Pinyin, which is the anglicized spelling of Chinese words. This may help westerners pronounce (or more likely, mispronounce as in my case) words, but without an address in Chinese characters, it’s going to be a crapshoot. I developed a stop-gap strategy after a few days. We took off with half a plan.
I was greeted by billboards a block long for several miles of the expressway (4th Ring Rd.) I was shocked to see a brand new IKEA. On hindsight, maybe that’s like saying I was shocked to see a Walmart in (insert your city). Still, it was not the quaint little Beijing westerners often think of. There are still a lot of areas that are like an old west screenstage – don’t look behind the façade, or at least not the back of the building. The discrepancies can be startling. Dilapidated, centuries-old homes can be found within feet of beautiful, glass and steel 50 story buildings. But even most of these blighted areas are being modernized.
We eventually got to my housing with no delays or detours as far as I could tell. I later verified this. All the legitimate taxi drivers I have used have been very honest. Any extra mileage was always due to my mangling of the language and sometimes screwups of even the pointing method.
I had been advised and strongly concur that you should avoid Black Taxis if at all possible. Black Taxis are not actually black, something I wish had been clarified. They are the thousands of private auto owners who offer to drive you for a negotiated fee (almost always higher than regulated taxis.) That may sound like a lot of hustlers, but the number of regular taxis in Beijing is staggering. It seems as if every third vehicle is a taxi. You can’t possibly fail to get one in less than a few moments.
Leaving the terminal, I had been approached by a man offering to drive me into the city. Having been told to go to the taxi line, I did so. I’m not always that bright. First though, I had to wrestle my luggage cart away from him and make an escape. He doggedly followed and kept up his sales pitch for 30 yards. He claimed his normal rate (shown on a business card) was 400Y ($50) but he would make me a deal for 350Y. My actual fare with a legitimate taxi was 76Y.
Once I arrived at my housing, I found that almost none of the staff speaks any English. Mind you, I had arranged lodging at a center dedicated to housing foreign students. I got the impression that at some level the attitude was “learn Chinese or get out.” I later came to truly appreciate the staff as being extremely professional and helpful. By not speaking English, they also forced me to work a little harder on my Chinese. If there is a plan behind it all, I can’t say I argue with it.
I also learned that day that Chinese employees tend to be very specialized as well. I’m still not sure if this system is designed to enable each employee to excel at their given task or to ensure employment for everyone. I was introduced to one man to set up internet access for my room (including setting up my computer to interface with their system), 2 or 3 for luggage (and they needed them, maybe more) and one girl to show me how to work the remote for the air conditioning. I’m sure that isn’t her only job, but I’m not sure I’ve seen her since.
After a very long trip, 3 hours without air conditioning was hard to find humor in. Heat and humidity were not improving my outlook. Eventually the air conditioning specialist arrived and looked at me like I’m an idiot because I didn’t pick up the remote and click it. Remote control for air conditioning! I hope that never catches on in the West. One more damn remote to lose. This was very new to me, but I was so happy to have air again that I meekly accepted her judgment. The air conditioning unit blew contentedly for about ten minutes and then stopped. This was a pattern to be repeated almost hourly, lowering the room temperature at least 4 degrees to somewhere on the high side of 80. I wasn’t about to call the hostess back because, aside from her opinion of my intellect, I couldn’t explain the problem to her and she couldn’t tell me how to fix it. I was on my own.
Now not only does this remote have eight buttons with LCD readouts alongside, but the labels and readouts are all in Chinese. Actually two of them were in Celsius, but as frayed as I was at this point, they may as well have been Chinese. A few emails to the manufacturer in South Africa would surely fix the problem. A very nice salesperson tried to help, but finally said the problem had to be referred to her supplier for that particular model. I didn’t dare to ask where her supplier was located. I really didn’t spend much time thinking that this was a general situation, but rather that I should expect such glitches by coming here with no language skills. However, as I left the building, I noticed that some units have external air conditioners with English nameplates proudly proclaiming “Digital Chaos.” This may be bigger than I thought.
I’m back to a 56k internet connection, although it sometimes seems like 28k. It’s hard to get used to after being spoiled. Somewhere in the Amazon, a father said to his son, “I’ve heard about this internet, and I’ve been studying it. As soon as I figure out what it eats and where it sleeps, we’ll go hunting for one”. I guess I don’t have it so bad after all. Definitely puts an end to any thoughts about online gaming though.
Once I had decided it was enough for the day, I had a refreshing shower and left to do a little exploring. After only five or six blocks lack of oxygen (bus fumes), heat and humidity drove me into a restaurant. I was informed that they specialized in hot pots. I had read a lot about these and I thought it would make a great first meal in China. Unfortunately, I wasn’t told that hot pots are designed for family style dining. This is where one or more large dishes are placed on the table and everyone takes food from these dishes to put on their own plates.
I decided on an Islamic spicy base soup and added lamb and cabbage from extensive menu. You’d never get that many options if the cook had to make the dish. My bowl came with 2 gallons of soup, sauce, oil, tons of red peppers, etc., all boiling like fresh lava . My other raw ingredients came separately, so that I could add them to my own taste. They would cook in the lava. At this point I was sweating like a hungover Russian in a steam room. At least the beer was cold, and as a bonus, very good. I was physically and mentally spent but I forced myself to get down two of them.
The final hot pot product was very good and not too spicy. I would have usually eaten much more, but sometimes you’re just too tired to eat. I only managed to finished two teacups from two gallons. I’m glad the bowl was so big. The staff couldn’t tell how little I had eaten and no offense was taken. For my first truly pleasant surprise in China I was presented a wopping bill of $7.
8/3
Exhausted as I was, the first night I only got three hours of sleep. Chinese mattresses are slightly better than a marble floor. Giving up on the bed, I started trying to figure out where to put everything. Mind you, I had packed for a year or more. Skycaps were swearing at me for one of the bags. I swore right back when I got hit with almost $400 in excess weight charges. So imagine my consternation when I get to my student housing (which looked very nice in the pictures) and find I’m in something the size of a small dorm room. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very clean and everything’s new. It’s just that I never even lived in a dorm in college and now I had to adjust to one at 47. I decided to worry about that later.
Breakfast was pork, lettuce and CHILI on flatbread from street vendor. ($.18) Before I had finished it while walking, I was already soaked from head to toe. I mentally cursed the old lady, although it didn’t seem
that hot. I really should apologize some day, because the whole day was like that. I went thru 3 shirts and discovered that blue jeans are not a good idea when soaked – I chafed like hell and ended the day hobbling around like an 80 year old man.
I first went on instinct to find the university and actually passed it. The main gate wasn’t marked in English. I later found an area map posted at a bus stop. They’re all printed from one viewpoint so you have to be careful on deciphering them. I walked an extra three miles in the wrong direction without ever finding the school. I wearily wandered back to my room, looking forward to lying down before some necessary shopping that afternoon.
It was then that I realized the room conditions had gotten worse. The humidity was somewhat lower than many steam saunas I’ve enjoyed. One trip to the bathroom revealed the problem. What had initially been amusing was now a little irritating. The bathroom is the shower. No misprint there. A curtain divides the toilet from the sink, keeping the sink and various toiletries dry. So when you go for your morning wakeup, you close the curtain, turn on the shower, and both you and the toilet get a thorough soaking. As if this isn’t interesting enough, there is no lip or divider around the shower, allowing the water to accumulate on the floor in the entire bathroom.
As I said, initially amusing, since I assumed that this would all flow to the floor drain. Now the Chinese are wonderful engineers, but I’m guessing that a decades old building designed to house foreign students didn’t rate one of their architectural superstars. And of course, very few workers in a communist state would dare to question their superior. All of this resulted in bathroom floors that are as level as can be . It’s just that a level floor won’t drain as well as you could hope for. This was quite suddenly clear to me as I stepped into the bathroom and attempted to break my neck. Even wetter now, I stumbled out of the bathroom and added shower slippers and a squeegee to my shopping list. I decided against another shower and attacked my afternoon definitely worse for wear.
Chafing and smelling, I took a Black Taxi to IKEA (of all places) for a mattress pad and other items. I hadn’t understood my mentor’s advice so, thinking this guy just wants to make a couple bucks, I decided “Why not?” His car was red, after all. Universal observation– heterosexual men don’t like to go shopping. There is a hangdog look that all guys give each other when they are dragged along, often greeted with a knowing nod. I made haste and got out as quickly as possible.
I had to return later that afternoon to exchange the mattress pad because I had bought a double instead of single (working on 3 hours sleep in the last 43, my mind was a little foggy at this point.) Of course, pads were on the 3rd floor and I was required to go there to get the paperwork for a single. This is when the joy of IKEA dawned on me; there is NO way to get back down without walking the entire store. The Swedes are sadistic marketing geniuses! All this time I have a Black Taxi driver waiting for me and I said it wouldn’t take long. I ended up giving him an extra 30Y for the wait, over the agreed 70Y. Should have taken regular taxi both ways (60Y vs 100Y). The whole way he tries to impress me with his knowledge of America, which, other than Michael Jackson, consisted solely of missiles, planes and aircraft carriers. Damned if he didn’t name more carriers than I could. The only problem was that it took me 3-4 minutes of guesswork to figure out every word he said. I had a hell of a headache when I got back. My new pad and pillow were worth the aggravation though. l slept quite well that evening.
Damn Bill Bryson! I had read two of his travelogue books the week prior to leaving the U.S. Though they are excellent and inspiring, they somehow made me think that I should go walking down every road and through every interesting little place to get the most out of the local flavor. I’ll admit that my small mind is somewhat (impressionable, gullible, irrational – pick one), but even I should have stopped to realize that the furthest I had walked in several years was from the bar to the bathroom. And back!
So, after eight hot, sweaty, stinking miles the first day out of the gate, I lay on my newly improved bed, still sweating and hoping I can get my shoes back on once the swelling goes down. I’m not walking anywhere tomorrow, I swear to myself. Still, I later managed to hobble 3 doors down and enjoy a delicious plate of wheat noodles, pork and leeks with two bottled waters for a staggering $1.37. That was all I needed to make me sleep like a baby, finally!
8/4
2 miles walked
Gaining a day by flying over the timeline didn’t really confuse me too much. What I realized though was that I couldn’t figure out what day of the week it was. Seems simple, I know, but it took me a week to get the days straight. I'm hoping it was just my frazzled state of mind and not some long term issue. I haven't had a problem with it since, so I may have a chance at a normal life afterall.
I took a taxi to the university (I was bright enough to copy the Chinese characters from the confusing map the day before and he knew exactly where it was – no headaches from this ride) and promptly forgot my oath of the previous night. Even if the buildings were a little weathered, the campus was beautiful. Wide pedestrian roadways covered by a canopy of trees induced me to let the taxi go and start walking.
I wasn’t alone, even at 6:30am, well before any classes. The wonderful setting draws hundreds of local retirees for their morning walks and exercise classes. Several hundred acres of nothing but quiet buildings and shady roadway with no autos (and only a few bicycles) made for a very pleasant stroll. Unfortunately, an hour later, I was again drenched from head to toe and questioning my sanity. My feet spoke up on the subject moments later.
As I exited the campus I realized that nothing was open yet, so I continued walking until I had to rest. What better place than a Starbucks? I’ve read that the Chinese are enthralled with the chain, but this was connected to a large, upscale hotel in a very busy area and they had three customers in an hour. There was something very satisfying about being in the most heavily populated country on earth and having a Starbucks to myself at 8:00 am.
After going through three tellers and still failing to set up a bank account, I settled for exchanging my remaining dollars so I could pay for my room. This works on a curious arrangement. The longer time you pay for in advance, the better the rate. It’s common enough to see motels give a better weekly rate, but here I was looking at a substantial savings if I committed to several months. The manager was working me for five months (mainly with gestures and a couple words we both understood) and I was thinking three, so we settled on four months at their lowest rate. Tight fit and jungle atmosphere notwithstanding, I figured $9 per night was a good deal. I was sure the temperature had to improve in a month or two. With my language skills (or lackthereof) I couldn’t exactly deal with all the details of an apartment anyway.
After an extended rest period, I decided to venture out once more ; after all it was Friday night. This decision was made much easier due to the fact that I had stumbled onto a miracle treatment for third degree chafing involving boxer briefs and baby oil. Enough said.
I have to say I’m proud of myself. I made it an entire three days before being glanced by a bicycle at an intersection. Based on my initial expectations, I hit the lottery. I decided that was all the luck I was due for one day and caught a taxi.
I’d been amazed at the great, if disorderly, flow of traffic up until then. I thought the driving was atrocious but it had moved along pretty well. This was my first experience with rush hour. Lane markers meant nothing, white or yellow. Intersections without lights were a three-ring circus. Apparently, the preferred method of turning left across traffic is to nudge your way into the oncoming lanes. The first few cars will simply swerve around you, cutting off the cars to their right. Eventually, you nudge far enough to force the oncoming traffic to stop. Repeat procedure to cross multiple lanes.
If I could own any business in the world, I would strongly consider the concession on replacement horns in Beijing. They only thing I haven’t heard yet is a bicyclist honking or ringing at a car. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. It’s a vicious battle out there. Driver honks his horn. Second person (driver, cyclist, pedestrian, spectator) ignores the horn. Driver honks repeatedly with no result. Fifteen seconds later, attempting to gain an advantage, driver honks preemptively at someone else. Same result. From there on, as far as I can tell, driver honks for the hell of it. He still gets ignored. The upside of this is that, even with the horrendous jams, the three mile ride that cost me $1.25 that afternoon only cost $1.37 that evening. For that, I’m willing to forgive all Beijing taxi drivers for their conspiracy against me.
I’ve developed a system for using a taxi. I memorize the name of a place and then I memorize the approximate route (I haven’t acquired a very good map yet.) I try the name on for size. The driver gives me a blank stare. I repeat the name several different ways, resulting in several identical blank stares. Then I point. When we arrive, I point to a sign and pronounce the name again. The driver will invariably say “Oh, potato”, when I had foolishly said potahto, or something similar to that. I say it several times with the driver and practice it repeatedly. The next day I say potahto and go through the same blank stare and point routine. Upon arriving and being questioned, the driver will say “Oh, potato!" I’ve come to the belief that the taxi drivers union has distributed my picture to their entire membership with instructions to torture me. It’s the price I pay for getting there in one piece cheaply.
I finally arrived at my destination: an outdoor covered garden with umbrella covered tables in front, called the “International Beer Garden”. I had seen it earlier that day, before it was open and decided that this was a sure thing. After some confusion with the waiter, as I spoke no appropriate Chinese and he spoke even less English, I went and got my own beer. I then discovered that this particular establishment’s definition of international was that it's customers were from many countries. There was a large variety of Chinese beer though.
Apparently getting my own beer was a mid-sized faux pas on my part. I may have made the waiter lose face. I made up for it by being extremely polite in motioning for the second beer, when he could see what I wanted. I then wandered around and checked the food stalls (which cost no one any face). The food was varied and extremely good, even if I couldn’t tell what it was. Four skewers later I was stuffed, even though I would have eaten much more back home.
Having offended the waiter once (and I’ve learned that’s never a good idea since he is in control of things you will put in your mouth), fortunately I was able to apply a previously learned lesson and did not tip him. Tipping is not, repeat not, polite in China. I had tried it my first day and I got the impression that had the waitress not been so polite, she would have introduced me to the back of her hand. This is still a difficult custom for me to come to terms with. I've associated with a lot of heavy tippers in my life and later got into the bar business, where you learn the need for tips and become very generous. Just in time, I’ve caught myself starting to tip on several occasions. I know that I’m going to slip once in a while. I just hope I have a small server with no backhand.
Arriving back home, I walked into the mom and pop store across the street (7 ft. x 15 ft., and that contained 2 coolers). I proudly asked for three beers, having mastered the two necessary words. It all fell apart when she apparently asked me if I wanted bottles or cans. I hadn’t seen canned beer previously. That alone took 3 minutes to decipher, including one ugly moment when she started to put my beers back in the cooler. I think the look on my face answered her question.
I have to acknowledge here that prior to moving, my doctor gave me the third degree about cutting back to seven drinks a week, no more than two on any day. I realize that’s the right thing to do if I want to live long enough to learn a language like Chinese, but it’s tough. Having hung around and worked in some upscale pool halls the last several years, there is no shortage of people who will verify that two drinks is like cracking my knuckles before getting down to serious work. I am trying Doc, but come on! This is a little stressful….and three 20oz. beers cost me all of $.75. I’ll work on it. I’ll work on it!
8/5
2 miles walked
At the rate I was sweating up clothes, I was already in need of a laundry. The dorm building only has one SMALL washer and no drier. Seemingly, everyone in Beijing hangs their clothes to dry. I even saw clothes hanging from the second floor of the police station. Unfortunately, I have nowhere to hang them, and they certainly wouldn’t dry in my room. I packed up all of my reeking clothes and went on twenty mile cab ride to find a laundry because the driver didn’t understand me. I was finally reduced to pantomiming with smelly clothes to my face and luckily for him, he caught on. The next step was to shove the offensive items in his face. Now that we were on the same page, he proceeded to take me to a laundry one block from my place.
Tones are everything. Imagine saying “Sit” firmly to your dog. Now imagine how “sit” sounds as the last word of a sentence spoken by a Valley Girl”, with the upward lilt. In Chinese, that same word would mean totally different things, such as romantic love and mourning someone’s death. What screws me up is speaking when I’m unsure and adding a questioning tone at the end, as in “Did I say that right?” The Chinese have no question tone and it destroys any meaning of what I actually said. It's difficult but I'm learning to speak confidently, even if it’s wrong.
I grew up thinking dragonflies were pond creatures, rural. They’re all over the place, in the city, with no visible water. Thousands of them. I've gotten used to being buzzed.
People here have the greatest depth perception in the world. Every few seconds they miss another car, bicycle or pedestrian by inches. I wouldn’t own a car in Beijing if it were given to me. However, I have totally adapted to trusting them drive. I haven’t seen a single accident yet, so I figured they’re just that good, why worry? Now I don’t even watch the traffic white-knuckled – it gives me more time to take in all of the sights.
The worst kind of driver in Beijing is what we in the west would call a careful, or timid driver. No one will ever wave and say “Go ahead”, so the timid driver is cut off constantly, often by 10-20 cars in a row, backing up traffic behind him and rapidly causing gridlock. Of course, I observed this phenomenon from one car back. Thankfully, my taxi driver was a fan of Steve McQueen and pulled some moves that really should have been caught on film. I’d really like to see that guy in a ’70 Mustang sometime, rather than an underpowered Sentra. I often wonder how many hours Mr. Timid sat there, and if he met with any physical abuse.
I bought a fan on that trip. It may seem like a small thing, but I was very excited until I got back and opened the box. “Some assembly required” takes on a whole new meaning when you’re not all that mechanically inclined and are confronted with instructions in gibberish. I mean, back home I’ve spent a lot of time wading through French, Spanish, German, Lithuanian and several other languages to find the English portion of a manual. Couldn’t this manufacturer put just one other language on the instructions? I could have recognized a couple in words in most of them. A couple of beers, a lot of swearing and a couple of restarts later, the fan was finally assembled by trial and error. I know it sounds like a cliché, but I wonder how long I have to hang on to the extra parts.
At this point, I’m able to instruct my taxi driver pretty well most of the time. It just doesn’t work for generic descriptions like “cleaners.” What is really frustrating is that the instruction I’ve given most often is the name of the street on which I live – that hasn’t gotten through once. You would think I would say it in the same accent as the driver just once, by mistake.
Again, right of way is what you make of it. Junk dealers on bike/carts are quite common. They specialize – one for water cooler bottles, one for cardboard, just about anything. One specializing in Styrofoam decided to make his right of way through the beer garden. He cycled in the back entrance off of an alley, up an aisle, stopped and got off to move several chairs and continued. A few yards later he repeated this and at least twice forced patrons to scoot out of the way before cycling happily out the front entrance. There must have been an urgent need for Styrofoam somewhere.
8/6
Having adjusted to traffic patterns, both vehicle and pedestrian (just as bad), I decided it was time to give my feet a break and set out to buy a bicycle. I was so excited that I took off at 7:00am on a Sunday. Now these are some of the hardest working people you’ll ever see, but even they sleep in a little on Sunday. With nothing else to occupy me, I realized that I was starving and finally found an open street café. This may sound a little risky, but I've found Chinese street food to be pretty safe. I’d even eaten from a few carts and it’s always well cooked. Street carts were easy – they each offered one item. The only options were made clear: the old lady would pick up a brush with mystery sauce on it and look at you. You shake your head appropriately. Do this once or twice and you’ve got your meal. Delicious too. Cafes are a little more challenging.
I walked up to the café, three grills and five small tables that pre-dated the revolution. I glanced at a few Chinese words on the wall but found no menus in sight. (I found many restaurants wisely showed pictures of each dish on the menu; a very few even had English descriptions – they tended to be repeat destinations.) No language, no menus, no helpful, budding English scholar in sight. I was reduced to the very basic method of acquiring anything. I calmly walked around each of the tables, either amusing or irritating everyone present, and examined their dishes. I felt like a judge at a dog show, walking in front of all the entries and finally pointing to the winner. The gentleman whose dish I declared champion was not in the amused category, so I quickly retreated to a vacant seat. Just when I thought I had pulled it off perfectly (“I want what he’s having”), old mother managed to hit me with several questions. It may have been one question put several ways in order to reach the stupid foreigner, but I have no way of knowing. I just kept pointing at the same dish and shaking my head until she went away. It worked perfectly.
I lingered over breakfast until other shops started opening and took a taxi to a used bike merchant I’d heard quite a bit about. Prevailing wisdom among westerners is to buy an old bike that looks like death, but works well. It won’t get stolen as often. New bikes have an ownership expectancy of less than a week. One person relayed her experience online (I count on these forums to guide me along). She had acquired a used bike and parked it in what she thought was a high traffic, safe area at her residence and then locked it. When she went out to run an errand, someone had cut her lock and put two of their own on the bike. She ran to the store and returned, intending to take the bike inside with her. The thieves had returned and the bike was gone. Business must be good when you don’t even have time to steal the bike the first time, you just reserve it for later!
At the gate to a different university, a 70 year old women has a large covered area where she allows students to park their bikes under her care for a fee. She sidelines in bicycle repair and used bicycle sales. The gesturing here was pretty simple. I pulled out some money and pointed to the bikes. She was extremely quick to catch on. In my mind I devised an experiment to see if pulling out money made other situations go more smoothly.
Old mother (don’t get upset, it’s a respectful term) started walking down aisle after aisle of bikes, all of them with locks on them – apparently student’s bikes. Every so often she would point to one and look at me hopefully. I pictured an exhausted student leaving after a tough day of classes and being met with “You didn’t park your bike here!" We finally settled on one that I thought would fit me and that I knew had been there for a very long time because it took her 10 minutes to wipe the dirt off of it. Now I started thinking "student on vacation" because she could not remove the lock. Just as I was starting to walk away, she excitedly tugged at my arm and motioned for me to wait. As I watched, she opened the door to her small bedroom and, from under her bed, produced the biggest pair of bolt cutters I had ever seen. Now sure I was standing in a bicycle version of a chop shop, I was relieved when even this device could not cut the ½” thick solid steel lock. I suddenly recalled somewhere else I had seen bikes for sale.
One very confused taxi driver later (it isn't easy describing a bicycle with your hands), I was examining several new bikes in an alley (apparently he wasn’t open for business and hadn’t pulled them out onto the sidewalk yet.) I’ll bet this guy has never turned away a customer because they were 30 minutes early, maybe not even two hours early. Since I had set a personal goal of keeping my first bike at least a month, I tore myself away and looked at his only used one. It was in pretty good shape; maybe too good for anti-theft purposes, but he closed the deal when he offered to adjust the seat and threw in a solid lock for my $25. I was back on a bike after almost 25 years, headed into the grandfather of all street competitions.
