people I’ve ever known; and a brilliant mechanic and handyman at that. I would just mention something about the bike and it would be fixed the next day. Did he do it in my sleep? I would often ask him to wait until I could watch him fix it to learn some ingenious method to fix a loose bottom bracket or to break a chain (hammer and nail over a nut). The man just had a bag of tools and a bucket of parts he would sift through, and to my surprise, always come out with the perfect matching piece. Incredible.
Truly I was fascinated by all the street-side mechanics around my town; always ready to flip a bike upside down and set to work. Their shop mostly consists of a lounge chair (essential), a couple of pumps, a few rags, a shoulder sack full of tools, oil, grease, some locks and tires for sale, and a bunch of random buckets filled with parts and scraps, and a bowl with some water, soap and sawdust to scrub your hands. Tobacco pipe and a few friends to chat with, optional. Sure the resulting fix may not always yield the smoothest ride, but they creatively make it work with their spattering of used and repurposed parts, and plenty of grease. One of the few items always in stock are new tires and tubes. I once tried to buy one of these tires without the install service and all hell nearly broke loose. “What?! No. This is impossible. Not okay. I must fix it for you,” the mechanic plainly stated. He wouldn’t let me just buy the parts, and probably rightly so, knowing well that my pathetic little plastic tire levers would snap with one attempt on those tight beads and steel rims. I tried to explain that I knew how to change a tire and bolstered my argument with the fact that my host-father was a mechanic too. He simply shook his head and explained that the price of the tire included the install and there was no other option, likely thinking, “Ok American-English-teacher-lady, leave the bike fixings to me because otherwise I’ll probably see you again in 15 minutes. You stick to teaching the kids.” I finally gave in and watched in awe as he pried the tire off with two wrenches.
Riding about town I was always on alert for interesting cyclists and unbelievably loaded bikes and trikes. Being a white female foreigner on a bicycle of all things, I rightly stood out a bit myself. Riding around town people would gawk, children would giggle, or if I was stopped at a light I might get the full up-and-down check. Head turns came at an especially high rate if I decided to offer a friend a ride.
Though in the U.S. we mostly associate the bicycle with leisure and sport, in China the bicycle is primarily a utilitarian vehicle of need and necessity; a functional possession that helps to accomplish the daily tasks of life. These “work bikes” are the every day rigs that help achieve your daily tasks. They may even be carrying your workplace like a mobile vegetable or fruit seller, mailcarrier or one of the street-side hairdressers or fixers of all things from shoes to umbrellas. These work bikes span from your usual single speed, upright bike that most people think of when they picture a Chinese bicycle, porteur handlebars, rod brakes and all, to steel frame folding bikes, to public bike share systems, to the tricycles that have varying sizes of what looks like a flat-bed truck on the back, used for towing all sorts of things. With two wheels, people often fasten bamboo across their racks in order to hang massive bags (typically upcycled rice sacks) containing whatever needs shifting across town. I witnessed some unbelievable loads hanging on those handmade panniers, shocked that the bikes weren't tipping backwards from all the weight, the riders sitting upright, pressing down on those handlebars, slowly pushing the pedals with their sandaled heels, legs bent outwards, chugging along. The tricycles are the true workhorses of the cycle world and what they manage to carry on those beat-up, but still beautiful, machines would make many an experienced cyclist's legs buckle. The most unbelievable loads were of the collectors who ride their trikes around the alleyways, circling the neighborhood ringing a little handlebar bell in hopes that someone is earshot is ready to part with their possessions, settle on a price and watch