The Bicycle Comedy
“Only painted,” is the term most often used to describe my bicycle. I have had this bicycle for over a month, and if you are wondering why you haven’t heard more about it, it is because I have not gotten much use out of it. It has aided me in no more than two, non-sequential one-way trips to the university.
Going to the market on market day to negotiate for used goods in Latin America, for a gringo, is inviting all manner of deceptions. That is why I brought my secret weapon, the native Ecuadorian Sandro, to help me find a fair price on a used bicycle to get me to and from work for the six months I am here. I am fully determined to buy whatever is functional today, and get the ball rolling on this one-time transportation expense. The brand to buy, so I am told, is Montero, so we stop in front of a good-looking one that looks like it will fit. I try it out as the old woman and her sun run the sales pitch, which consists mostly of “this is great quality” repeated incessantly. I give the bike a try and it functions fine, although the seat and handlebars need some adjustment, and the chain could use a little grease. Thinking on the bright side, I think “easy fix. How many things can go wrong with a bicycle after all?” First lesson of shopping at the market: owing to its very existence on the market, it does not deserve the benefit of the doubt.
Sandro and I spend a while working the old woman down to what we decide is a fair price of $35 for the 21-speed Montero. We take the original title and we return to the hotel. Next on the list is taking it to the bike shop for a few adjustments. Everyone in the hotel lobby gathers around to size up the new purchase, and there are a few wise guys who are very critical of the little imperfections here and there, but they seem to be satisfied with the settling price, except for old-fashioned Roberto who wouldn’t pay more than $25. “They’re jealous,” Sandro tells me, and so it appears. He asks everyone what they think we paid for it, receiving answers of $40-70.
We run to the parts shop and buy a few cheap particulars, including a chain for security. Business negotiations are obviously very involved here, even in the smallest details, and one should expect to see bloodshed before reaching a good settling price.
The next day, my test-run to the university gets me about four blocks before the chain breaks. I imagine I look a little goofy with my work clothes, backpack, long gringo hair jutting from a bike helmet, while I am holding a chain in my hand and, standing on one pedal, thrusting off the ground with my other leg in the manner of skateboarding, coasting as far as I can. I notice the handlebars misalign themselves a little and I twist them back into position, completely loosening the bolt and freeing the front wheel to spin any direction in which it feels the whimsy. Now the bike has lost even its coasting function and has become worse than worthless as I hold the bike up in a continuous wheelie with one hand, trying to keep the wheel from tangling up in the brake lines with my other, greasy chain hand. I try to keep a smiling face as I pull into the university amidst stares of “what the hell happened?”
I have class right away and there isn’t time to worry about particulars. So I place the bike in the janitor’s closet, lock it up, and go to class. But I finish late and the janitor’s closet is closed by the time I get to it. The only person who has the key is the janitor. He is out for lunch.
“Why didn’t you put the bike in our office?” asks a colleague. It was just that the janitor was so helpful and inviting. I walk home, which is what I am used to anyhow.
“Where’s the bike?” everyone asks. I tell them what happened and everyone shakes their heads. “You paid too much for that bike,” they say. It’s okay, Roberto knows a guy who will fix the bike for cheap, five dollars max. But I first need to get the bike back to the hotel. I ask my friends with cars from the university to help me out. They are willing, but we have to wait for the janitor, who has the key, and who is sick for the time being. So begins my daily ritual of returning to the hotel for lunch, receiving the question “when are you going to fix that bike?” and me answering “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow.” “Tomorrow, then,” they reply. This goes on for a couple weeks.
One day I see the janitor’s closet open and excitedly snatch my bicycle place it in the office where I will have easier access to it. Meanwhile, my friends are looking for a place to take my bicycle to get it fixed. They catch me on my way out, and say “let’s go.” They have arranged for the janitor to open the closet as well as for a car ride to the repairman. But the bike isn’t in the janitor’s closet. It is locked in the office. Danilo is the only person with the key. Danilo is out to lunch.
The next day, my university buddies take my bicycle to get fixed while I am teaching class. They later pick me up from the hotel to retrieve it. I arrive at the shop and look with surprise at all the old parts laying on the floor that have been replaced, more parts than I was aware my bicycle had. It turns out that most of the parts were from another bike. The only original parts now are the handlebars, frame, and one tire. Only painted, indeed. The bill is $15. My friends tell me not to buy used things at the market anymore. Where was their advice before I bought? Oh well, all said and done, $50 is not a terrible price to pay for a mountain bike. I choose not to complain, but to everyone else it is a lasting embarrassment. Overpaying for something is a shameful thing.
“So what are you going to do?” asks the hotel waitstaff, Angel. “Buy a new bike? You can give this one to me.” Yeah, why don’t I just wear a t-shirt that reads “money bags”? I’m on a tighter budget than that. “So are you happy with your bike now?” he asks. I shrug. “Yeah, why not?”
The next day, on my way home from the university, my front tire pops. And I was so looking forward to riding my bike into the hotel in front of all those bicycle know-it-alls. Instead I endure the sorry spectacle of pushing it in amidst obvious sympathy. “Bad luck,” they say. I laugh and agree. I take it in for a patch in the afternoon rain, but the shop owner has just decided to close up an hour early. He tells me to come back later. Instead, I got sick with a digestive problem. So I haven’t gotten around to fixing my bicycle yet. But I have had a chance to get some writing done.
Tags: Travel
Aaron Baldassare