What’s black and heavy and (mostly) round?

That’s right, the 28” wheels on my new commuter. In retrospect, the entire trip to purchase a bike was ill-conceived. We set out on a Sunday in a light drizzle and promptly had to turn around when we realized neither of us had brought the kwacha. Traffic was light (so far so good) but the reason became apparent once we got across the river in old town: only a handful of places were open. Still, we’d come this far….

After trudging up and down for a while and rejecting likely bike because the owner wanted us to purchase it then pay extra to have the tires inflated we stop into what we decide will be our final shop. At this point we’re still harboring the vague dream that we’ll be able to find something that both of us can ride. Ha! Of course all of the tires are flat on these bikes as well (this, we now realize, is how all new bikes are sold) so we can’t actually try them out per se. We waffle. The portly old Indian proprietor gives us the hard sell, and when he throws in the headlamp for free we crumble. Of course, now we have to find a mechanic to actually pump up the tires, etc., etc.

Finding a mechanic turns out to be fairly easy, and it’s a good thing we looked – the bike doesn’t even have grease in the bearings. We wait as he does far more tuning than one would think necessary on a new bike. Finally I get to take a test ride and realize immediately that the seat is too low. But, it turns out, that’s as high as it goes because the seat post is all of four inches long. Great. We try to load the bike into the car and continue on our way – no dice, too big. It might fit if we took a wheel off, but then (sans tools) how am I to get the wheel back on? So… I’ll be bicycling home. Annoying, but not the end of the world.

Roughly a kilometer into my ride, having just coasted down a nice long hill, there’s a whumph and my back tire blows out. Fuming I pull off to the shoulder and call Ariel. She’s already back across the river and has just discovered that our time spent waiting at the mechanic means the supermarket is now closed. Great. I volunteer to just go back to the mechanic and get it dealt with and start trudging back up the hill. I then fail to hear my phone ring when Ariel has a change of heart and comes to rescue me, and we both end up back at the mechanic. “Ah,” he says when I explain “tubes no good – not strong.” We open up the tire and, sure enough, it isn’t a pinch flat or a puncture – there’s simply an inch-long split along the seam.

Sending Ariel home, I stalk off to the market in search of a replacement, cursing the man who sold us the crappy bike and my own stupidity in caving to the hard sell. After some wandering about I find a stall with four guys selling strips of tire. Close enough. I ask about tubes and eventually, after some gesticulating at a bike that is fortuitously wheeled by, we understand each other. No, there are no tubes here – I need to go to Senga market, five blocks away.

After resisting the allure of piles of flip-flops and vinyl loafers, mismatched slacks and polyester blazers and every conceivable type of unnecessary car accessory (Steering wheel cover? How about fuzzy dice? Jesus is Lord window decal?) I locate the stall selling tubes. Fortunately I’d gotten the price from the mechanic and am able to bypass the 2,000 kw “made for Africa” (read: made for azungu) option and get the 850 Chinese versions. Ten blocks later and I’m back at the mechanic’s patch of sidewalk (he’s a low-overhead operation) with the new tubes… just in time for it to start raining.

Finally, new tubes in place, rain subsided to a drizzly I gingerly set out again. The front wheel’s lack of roundness gradually becomes more and more apparent, but apart from that and the persistent danger of whacking my knees on the handlebars (damn it – who makes a four inch seatpost?!) things are going relatively well… until it really starts to rain again. At this point I’m soaking wet, fuming at the bike, myself, and the world in general as I furiously pedal towards home. And suddenly, up drives Ariel in our housemate’s car. Apparently she’d gotten worried at my delayed absence and, when I again failed to hear my phone, come to rescue me should I be lying mangled somewhere in a ditch. Thoughtful? Yes. Caring? Absolutely? Well-received given my state of mind? Well…. let’s just say I snarled something less-than-grateful about getting the car muddy and pedaled the rest of the way home as penance for my stupidity.

And that, my friends, is how I came to own the splendid piece of shit. Gears? Who needs ‘em? Cables, housing and functional brakes? First-world frippery. What matters is style, and this baby’s got it from the painted fenders and chain guard right to the spring-loaded plastic seat.

[Edit: I wrote this post a week ago but was waiting to publish until I had the chance to take a suitably hilarious picture of me on the thing, tie flapping in the breeze and laptop case in tow. Sadly (?) it was not to be. When I got in to the office last Wednesday it was gone from its home in the building's back stairwell. Apparently the motorcycle cable lock was not deterrent enough. It looked pretty much exactly like the picture below.]