Samuel R. Hester – Edmonton, Canada
Based on experiences from a trip to northern China in the Spring of 2008.

I had been told that the sea of bicycles didn’t exist anymore in Beijing, at least not like the stock pictures I had been inundated with as a child showed. This turned out to be true, but not exactly like how I pictured it. In the core of Beijing cyclists have bike lanes on the outside of the main roads separated by flowerbeds and nice fencing. It creates a very clear delineation between where cars drive and where cyclists ride. The bike lanes are about as wide as one and a half standard North American lanes and are on both sides of the roadway. Whether or not the law states that cars always have the right of way it seems to be the prevailing accepted and certainly practiced traffic rule. This isn’t necessarily bad, and once I had come to twist my brain to this everything seemed fine and had a very set method. This means cars turning right go first before you as a cyclist get to cross an intersection. However in some places this was regulated better as cars are actually stopped for pedestrians crossing at certain intersections, thereby allowing cyclists to cross freely at the same time. I never saw vast throngs of cyclists on the bicycle lanes, they really should be called bicycle highways, but there was always a steady stream of them. One of the more interesting things was that the majority of cyclists were on electric bicycles. Perhaps this should not be surprising since the bicycle is ultimately transportation, and electric bicycles are easier for people (especially less mobile ones) to use. I didn’t collect a lot of data on the percentage of electric bicycles to standard pedal bicycles, but in the several small samplings I took it was significantly more than 50%.

In Jinan (Capital of Shandong Province, about 500km South East of Beijing) most of the bicycle lanes were beside the sidewalk, elevated to curb height. They reminded me a great deal of the bicycle lanes in Copenhagen near Tivoli. Here again there were a lot of electric bicycles moving about. Nowhere in either Beijing or Jinan did I see cyclists huffing it like so many commuters here do. They all went at a more relaxed pace similar to what I have seen in European cities.

I decided to visit a few bicycle shops to see what the price differential was for the electric bicycles and standard ones. The first sticker shock was that you can buy a one speed city bicycles with fenders, chain case, bell and rear rack for 100RMB ($17.50). Granted the breaks are flimsy side pulls, however the bicycles are actually put together by people who know these bicycles well and the feel of the ride never concerned me. The bicycles that were up in the 500RMB ($85-100) range were nice aluminum framed city bicycles with all the amenities you would expect from any European city bike. Electric bicycles took up about 70% of the floor space in the standard shop and started as low as 2000RMB ($350). When talking to several shop owners, I found out that very few working people were still buying standard bicycles. Obviously this is good for the shops since the profit margin on a 2000RMB bicycle is much greater than on a 100RMB one.

I did go to one bicycle shop in Jinan that only sold performance bicycles. Beautiful bicycles I recognized from back home, with Deore and Ultegra components. High quality bicycles and knowledgeable staff are available, however expect to pay the appropriate price for them. Bicycles made in America or Japan cost the same or slightly more in China than they do back in North America.

I came back from China, elated to see another area of the world with large bicycle infrastructure.

Best bicycle items to pick up in China: Tires: 15RMB ($2.70) each. I’ve found these to last as long as my standard tires , with no issues. Inner tubes: 3.5RMB ($0.62) each Folding baskets: 10-25RMB ($1.80-4.48), get the more expensive ones, they are made of much better steal and won’t bend after hauling heavy things. Bells: 3-10RMB ($0.54-1.80) Great, cheap and come in a many colours and interesting styles.

THE FALLING SUITCASE… This crazy story isn’t real—it happened in a dream I had a few nights ago. EBC member Ang McCartney is in it, but before anyone gets creeped out, it isn’t a sexy dream or anything. It was just, well, you know, crazy. It started pretty normally with me riding on the south side of Edmonton along 97th Street. The street was almost empty, as it often is, because there’s no on- or off- ramps connecting it to the Whitemud Freeway. It’s just a big wide road with warehouses and factories that’s a perfect north-south corridor for cyclists. I was riding north, and as I looked ahead in the distance I could see a woman on a bike. I pedalled a little faster and as I got close to catching up, I could tell it was Ang. She was singing. It was the song off Sheryl Crow’s new album about gasoline riots in the year 2017. The chorus is, “Gasoline will be free, will be free!” As I closed in behind Ang, I figured I’d surprise her by singing along. But right at the moment that I was about to join in, Ang lifted her ass off the saddle and cut a very loud fart. (Just to remind you, this is not real. It’s a dream.) Well, I laughed so hard I almost crashed. Ang, suddenly aware of my presence, whipped her head around and turned bright red, but was soon laughing hard, too. We laughed and weaved all over the road like drunks, and were almost on the brink of passing out for laughing so hard when a suitcase suddenly dropped from the sky and crashed onto the pavement in front of us. “Holy! What the…” I exclaimed as we both slammed on our brakes. “It must have fallen out of a plane!” Ang said. We looked up, but there wasn’t a plane to be seen. Not even the remains of a wispy contrail marked the air. We looked back down at the exploded suitcase in front of us, up at the sky again, and then scanned the nearby buildings. Perhaps, we thought, there might a lunatic launching suitcases with a catapault. But we were the only ones there. Cautiously, we approached the suitcase. It looked like it was an older, hardshell case, like the kind that used to survive getting bashed around by gorillas in old TV ads. Its contents, were visible among the pieces of cracked shell, and they clearly belonged to a woman. “Should we touch any of it?” I asked. “Maybe the police, or Transport Canada, will need it all just like it is when they investigate.” “Investigate? It fell out of a plane!” Ang replied, looking up at the sky again. “But I guess we should still call the cops.” Ang dialed 911 on her cellphone. The operator, assuming a report about a falling suitcase must be a prank, hung up twice before finally agreeing to transfer the call to the police. The cops weren’t particularly convinced, either, but promised Ang they’d send a cruiser as soon as they could. We waited for a while, but soon gave up. I couldn’t really blame the Edmonton Police Service. They’ve got their hands full hunting for people who kill hookers or shoot up all-night dance clubs. Since I had a rack and bungee cords, I volunteered to take the suitcase home and try to figure out who owned it. I wrote down Ang’s phone number and promised to keep her informed about whatever progress I made. We rode together until Whyte Ave., at which point I headed north across the High Level Bridge for home. I looked through the blue pages in the phone book when I got back to my apartment and dialed Transport Canada. They were at least a little more interested than the police had been. “What’s the airline name on the baggage tag, sir,” asked the clerk, or investigator, or whatever he was. “Eastern Provincial, and the destination code is YHZ,” I said as I read the tag. “That’s impossible,” the man said, sounding annoyed. “EPA was taken over years ago, and they never flew over Alberta.” “I know,” I replied. “I’m from the East Coast. YHZ is Halifax. Look, I realize it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what it says.” The call went south as quickly as a falling Samsonite. “Phone the North Pole! Maybe it fell out of Santa’s sleigh!” the Transport Canada man shouted, and then hung up. Well screw the authorities, I thought. I looked at the owner’s tag, which was next to the airline tag on the suitcase handle. It said it belonged to a Heather Macdonald who lived on Oxford Street in Halifax. It even had her phone number. I dialed it, but the machine that answered told me I’d reached the home Carl and Jennifer. I left a message asking them to call me if they could help me reach Heather, but I figured it was best to leave out the details about the falling suitcase. My next step was canada411.com, but there were literally thousands Macdonalds in Halifax. I looked though the contents of the suitcase, but there didn’t seem to be anything that might identify or locate the owner. I was stumped. I called Ang. I started in right away about how badly things were going when she cut me off. “Somebody—I don’t know who—just called me. They want us to bring the case to BikeWorks, at 10:00 tonight!” she said. “They said they wanted us both to come, and no one else. And they told me to call you.” Ang said she thought we should call the cops. “I don’t know, Ang,” I said. “I never told anybody that you were involved. The only people who have your name or phone number are the police. They would have recorded it when you called 911. Whoever phoned you must have got it from them.” Now we were really freaked. Why the hell would anyone go to such lengths to recover a suitcase that didn’t appear to have anything valuable in it? Was it incriminating evidence? Did it have a secret panel with jewels hidden inside? Ang and I reasoned that if we didn’t bring the case to them, they would eventually find us. We decided to meet whoever it was a Bikeworks like they’d asked. I know that doesn’t sound like a safe thing to do, but keep in mind that this was a dream, and you sometimes do dangerous things when you’re dreaming. At 9:50 p.m, I met Ang at the corner of Whyte Ave. and 109 St. We cycled together to BikeWorks where the yard was locked and the workshop was dark. “Did they tell you what we should do or what they look like,” I whispered. “They just said to wait,” Ang replied. I unlocked the padlock on the gate and was about to swing it open when there was a bright white flash in the middle of the yard. Ang and I braced ourselves for what we though would be an explosion, but it was completely silent. The sudden flash had made it hard for us to see, but as our sight returned, we made out what appeared to be three children standing in front of us wearing large bicycle helmets. Slowly, our pupils adjusted. The children had arms as long as a chimpanzee’s! Their legs were short, and there seemed to be more legs than there should have been. And their helmets weren’t really helmets at all—they were just really, really big heads! They were freaking aliens! “Do not be alarmed. We don’t wish to hurt you,” the middle alien said. “Yes, but we can hurt you if you don’t cooperate,” said the alien on the left. The alien on the right craned his neck and looked at the alien on the left, shook his big head, and rolled his eyes. He—if he actually was a he—looked as though he wanted to be someplace else. All three of the aliens had long snouts similar to a dog’s. And all of them, including the bored-looking one, kept looking at the suitcase strapped on the back of my bike. I may have screamed at some point, but I can’t remember. My mouth opened and closed, but words just never materialized. I have no idea what Ang was doing—I was so shocked from seeing the aliens that I’d forgotten she was even there. “Tell us why you want the suitcase,” Ang told the middle alien. To me, the idea of demanding answers from four-legged beings with the power of teleportation was dangerous, and possibly fatal. I expected them to shoot us with a ray gun. The middle alien, however, nodded agreeably. “It belongs to an earth woman who lives in your year 1983,” the alien began. “She lived with us on our home world for a while. We dropped her back home again, but we accidentally left the suitcase on our roof. We were on our way to 2010 when it fell off and landed on your roadway.” The bored alien rolled his eyes again. I was getting the impression that the other two aliens might be his—or her—father or mother. “She was a very cooperative lady,” the alien who had originally threatened us said. “We erased most of her memories of us, but leaving her suitcase here is a problem. It violates the Intergalactic Time Travellers Act.” I told the aliens they could have the case. I suppose I should have asked where they came from and whatnot, but truthfully, all I could think of was how much danger I might be in, and how quickly I wanted to get out of there. “Could you do us one favour for us before we go?” the middle alien asked. Ang and I nodded our heads. “Please show us how to ride one of these bicycles.” It turned out, the aliens explained, their civilization’s transportation technology had progressed from simple wheeled carts directly to ionic levitation. There hadn’t been any steps in between, so nothing like bicycles had ever been invented. Bicycles looked like so much fun, they said. Even the young, bored-looking alien was beginning to perk up as he looked around at all the bikes around us. What could we say? We started hunting for a bike that would fit short aliens with four legs. We eventually settled on a small ladies’ Peugeot cruiser with coaster brakes. When we put the seat all the way down, the aliens were able to reach the pedals with their hind legs, while resting their front legs on the frame. We took them out to the back alley, and the rest wasn’t much different than teaching a child to ride. At one point, EBC volunteer Bill Sellars showed up to do an emergency repair on his bike. Ang and I were very keen to explain what was going on, but Bill reacted as though nothing was unusual. “Hello, Bill!” all three of the aliens said when they saw him. “Hi. I didn’t expect to run into you here. How’ve you been?” Bill replied. “Fine,” one of the aliens said. “We’re just passing through. Do you need a lift anywhere when we’re done?” “No thanks, I‘m good,” Bill answered before going off to the parts room for a new derailleur. In the end, I told the aliens they could keep the bike. I wondered how I would explain to Keith, our senior mechanic and a Peugeot afficianado, what had happed to it, but I was sure I’d figure something out. The aliens wouldn’t accept the bike for free. They had cash—old bills from 1983—and paid $100 for it. “It’s a French bike. If you ever need to replace any parts, go to France in like, 1975,” I said as they wheeled the Peugeot into the centre of the yard. They waved. There was another bright, silent flash, and then I woke up. As dreams go, I’d give it about an eight. Those of you who believe in UFOs and alien abductions might conclude that this strange story actually happened. You might suggest the aliens wiped my memory so that the only way I could recall the experience was through my subconscious. You’re probably so excited that I’m reluctant to even tell you that Keith asked me on Saturday about where the Peugeot cruiser went. But before you whip out your phone and speed-dial Space Channel, I checked the cash box for old bills and couldn’t find any. I even told Ang about the dream, just in case she’d had it, too. She hadn’t, plus, I think she was a little creeped out. Even if it wasn’t real, I love the thought that an alien race might someday return from visiting our planet with tales of riding bicycles. Their alien friends, yearning for details about our far-away world, would ask about our civilization’s greatest accomplishments. Televisions, computers and supersonic travel are what we typically think of as great, but I’m betting the aliens would be bored hearing about those things. The technology would pale in comparison to their own. But can you imagine how strange, even exotic, a bike would seem to a world that had never seen one? I’m betting the Peugeot, if aliens really did take it, is now the most popular exhibit at their planet’s galactic museum.

- Robert Drinkwater - —30—

Calamity Jude series, #1Jude wakes

Jude became awake. It wasn’t a conscious choice, certainly. The dull ache of her head and right shoulder was an irritating contrast to the bright sun on the purple wall. She wondered if she should move to relieve the pain in her shoulder and risk finding more pain elsewhere. Shift legs, brace with hand, briefly lean on the shoulder wile hips moved up, slide over and around - everything felt fine. How many times in her life had she shifted her weight to turn over in the night? She woke fully with thoughts of outdoor fun buzzing in her head. She looked around her room - a two drawer dresser, a box of winter clothes (some used in summer), a closet with books and more winter clothes, a memento box, spare linen. It was a room that contrasted with the clutter and dust of the rest of the house. Sitting on the side of the bed, she slid on a pair of loose shorts, her favourite plaid shirt with buttons from her Gramma’s button tin, and boots. This got her to the bathroom without embarrassment and she loved the sound of those boots on hardwood. After showering, she felt ready for the day . “That’s a morning routine” she thought. It felt good to have such a simple start to the day. She was ready for one last spontaneous day before she started job searching. Her roomie, Glory, grumbled past her in the hall, stopping at the closet to pour her daily vitamins into her ‘vitamin cup’. When the house was built, this closet held a full set of outdoor clothing for a family. The light wood doors bent vertically in the middle on piano hinges and rolled on tracks to open with a squeek.

Glory had explained most of the vitamins to Jude when they first moved in together. Jude was quiet. She found herself unable to state what she felt which was “Why do you think this is interesting just because I’m too polite to walk away? Why can’t I stand up for myself and just walk away?” She passed the time during the vitamin lecture by calculating how many bikes she could by for the money invested in that closet. It amazed her to listen to people with charisma and conviction state their opinion. Some did it so well that they could repeat themselves frequently and entrance people to listen and reflect anew. Glory wasn’t one of those people. The conversation this morning in the hallway was unavoidable and predictable. “You look like death. Do you want something to stimulate your endocrine gland?” said Glory fumbling with a plastic bottle. Jude couldn’t help but notice that Glory looked like death too. “Um, no. I just have to wake up.” “All right, do it the hard way.” “What, are you pushing stims now?” Thought Judy as she headed for the kitchen, dipping her shoulder and bowing her head to avoid contact.

Her coffee made, Jude made an escape to sit on the sunny cement front steps. As her foot landed on the first step down, pain seared her calf muscle, sending her body in to a convulsion. “(#!)!” Bent in pain, covered in coffee, she could only wait for it to relent. This was a bad one. As the charlie horse eased and she was able to massage it a bit, she thought this was worse than when it had happened in bed, not holding a scalding beverage. Then again, at least she didn’t have to hear Glory deal out a subscription of self-righteousness. Those lectures usually started and ended with a verbattum account of dexot regiments - otherwise known as purging regiments. Jude resolved to eat a lot of bananas as they have something that prevents charlie horses, like potassium or magnesium or some such. She decided that coffee smelled pretty good, and she just wasn’t a two shower-a-day kind of gal.

Now her beautiful morning was a bit more mentally cloudy. As she cleaned up the broken mug, she wondered what to do that day. Several pieces of unfinished business rattled around in her head. On her second banana, she made a long list, stuck it in her back pocket and made for the door. Wallet, bike, ready. She flung her leg gracefully over the rear wheel as it rolled into the street, her butt slid on the saddle like hand in glove. Ten minutes and a good sweat later and it was going to be a good day after all.

-Molly Tunrnbull-

I was born in England in 1955 and without even seeing the land of my birth, travelled to Canada via ship to what has now been my home for the last 53 years and I expect that someday, I will die here. Canada is a very nice country except for the fact it gets so cold in the winter we are often stuck indoors. It would be nice to go to England and travel the roadways although they are probably much different than they were when I was a young and I expect that the bicycles there are a lot flashier and prettier.

At one time I thought an old lady like me would not even rate a second glance but that has changed.

I was very beautiful in my youth and was the object of desire for many a young man and although I have always been a simple gal, was little too expensive for their tastes. One younger man finally did pay the price that was asked and took me home.

This strapping young man immediately proceeded to strip me of my skirts and as a proper English girl, I was shocked. He then took me outside, and rode me harder than I ever thought was possible and must admit, I really enjoyed it.

This became a regular occurrence as the young man would pick me up and take me out to the country and ride me for hours on end without stopping and I must say, he had a lot more stamina than most. The other men would bring their girls and we would all ride and race together but my man was far stronger than any of them, and even as he got older, he was still able to thrash many of those young upstarts and their pretty new girls.

The man’s wife never seemed to mind the time we spent together and although there were times his attention was focused elsewhere and we could not go out He never neglected me and made sure I was always well provided for and in return, I was always ready when needed me and I never felt as if I was being kept as I knew the man loved me

Unlike so many, this fellow was faithful and despite my advancing age (and his) we never failed to find pleasure in each other. I have to say that at some 70 years old, he was still a fine looking man and think our time together had kept him fit and strong while many of his peers either withered, got fat, or simply died.

When I saw the new girl I briefly thought she had been brought home to replace me, as she was shinier and prettier, and good god, was she fast. I think that the silly man thought my weight, which had never changed in all these years might slow him down. The man started spending a lot of time with the new girl and I was worried I might be abandoned but I discovered it was nothing like that.

My man would come and take me out every Sunday and we would go for long rides together, but never at the often frightful and delightful pace we both enjoyed in our youth. Because of our slower pace, the man’s wife even joined us from time to time… they seemed very happy and I don’t think there is anything nicer than being able to spend time doing things with the people you love.

It was a dark day when the man took the new girl and left the house never to return…they had gone racing, which I had finally approved of since I realized that perhaps, I was a little old for such things. But something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

I think part of it was my fault because I may have taught the man things that worked for me that did not work for the new girl as we older English girls can be a little quirky. They say he may have forgotten that we were very different and that besides being able to go faster, she also stopped much faster although I don’t think she meant to throw him off and into the tarmac.

He was killed and I never saw the new girl again but truly hope that she wasn’t scrapped.

After that I found myself moving from place to place and finally found myself alone in the dingy basement of a strange shop. After nearly a year of sitting in the corner I began to think that there weren’t any men left that would find an old thing like me to be attractive. In all honesty, I was looking a little dishevelled and could not have compared my looks to the shiny new girls.

I felt that I was nothing more than a piece of scrap waiting to be crushed and this is the stuff of all our nightmares, since so few of us are ever saved.

I had almost given up hope of ever being rescued from the dungeon that had become my home when a young and very fit young man came over to the corner where I was sitting. His eyes were wide open and he seemed a little out of breath and then started pulling away the boxes that had been piled around me.

He just stood there looking at me for what seemed like an eternity and then told me I was “beautiful” and that he thought he would never find me. He actually trembled when he picked me up and carried me out of that basement and into the sunshine.

Apparently, my value seems to have appreciated over the years and that there are indeed, men (and now even women) that seek us out and find our age to be what is most attractive about us.

He took me home that day and spent hours running his hands all over me and cleaning every inch… and he didn’t seem to mind that I was looking a little worn and tired but actually relished in my imperfections… a patina of age, so to speak.

This somewhat old fashioned young man found some pretty new skirts for me and it is now hard to believe that is has been 53 years since I had been liberated. Because of this I thought that we would probably be going on leisurely Sunday rides and expected that with the skirts, that he expected to be get caught in the rain.

We were on our first ride together and imagine my surprise when the man and I hit a long stretch of road and he stood up and showed me things I had thought I had forgotten… he too showed me that he could ride me hard and fast for hours and more importantly, that I could still be ridden just as hard as I had been in my youth.

We have now travelled many miles together and take great delight in shocking people when go bythem and we also like to take is easy and go for longer trips in the country where the journey is what is most important. This is not to say we don’t still like to go hard and fast when the mood strikes us.

I now live with a bunch of nice girls and many of them are even older than I am… the man takes very good care of all of us and makes sure we all get a good amount of attention. I have to say that I feel like a young girl again and don’t mind sharing my space as these other girls also have some interesting stories to tell.

Quite seriously, it is not in a bicycle’s nature to be jealous although I do sometimes wonder about the French girl “Bridgette”, as she gets a little peevish when the man doesn’t spend enough time with her.

We all wait for spring as then the man just won’t look at us but will come and take us out to play in the sunshine and I have to admit that I am looking forward to being taken out to see if can still show these young girls a few things.

So we will wait…

what shall we do with these streets, beloved?now that the cars are gone

rip ‘em up barehanded and let the good soil free grow beehives and feed them monarda and lilacs and clover moreover, and ask them to spare us a share of their honey exchanged for our care

grow goat herds, and comb out their coats to make wool to knit socks to keep warm while we walk and we ride, glide, slide at the speed of breath.

what shall we do with these streets, beloved? now that the cars are gone

hold dances on foot, hoof and wheel jig and reel and the round dance sing hey ahey ahey ahey.

cities like beehives coiling with more stories and laughter

more spaces for solitude riverside breathing

elk thoroughfares the raspberry stained rush hour of bears

and when they ask what is was that happened here? where grass and willow cradle asphalt bones tell the children only a dream

-Anna Marie Sewell-

Editors note: The following is a column by the highly-esteemed automotive journalist Sandor St. Hughes. Mr. St. Hughes typically reviews luxury and sports automobiles for newspapers that subscribe to the Richmond International syndicate. However, an unfortunate “incident” at a staff party has resulted in his “promotion” to reviewing economy vehicles. As few sponsors could be found for the economy section this week, Mr. St. Hughes’ column is being supplied for free to worthy newsletters. Can 2008 Bicycle Save the Planet, Or is it all Just Spin? By Sandor St. Hughes

I must admit to you that I was somewhat indignant when my editors informed me that I would not have the responsibility of test driving the newest Jaguar XJ-12 this month. After all, who but a skilled professional could inform you, the discerning automobile customer, about the subtle differences between using Argentine or Spanish calf leather for dashboard trim?

Still, I swallowed my pride and realized that not all of you out there can afford top-of-the-line craftsmanship, an On-Star GPS, or refrigerated cupholders. I asked myself, should that mean you deserve less than the best in automotive reporting?

Perhaps.

But not this month, I said. Bring on this year’s Volkswagens, I shouted. Send me your Hyundais and Toyotas, I exclaimed with gusto.

My enthusiasm grew when our reception desk informed me that the 2008 Bicycle had arrived for me to review. Bicycle? Never heard of it. Must be new, I thought. How exciting!

I immediately went outside to the parking lot to look for it, but I couldn’t find a vehicle with such a name. I concluded that it must already have been stolen, so I returned to the building, sat at my desk and was in the process of telephoning the police when I spied an unusual piece of machinery leaning against my desk.

The 2008 Bicycle. Oh how my heart sank!

I tried to stay positive. Bicycle’s design is innovative, I told myself. It saves weight by dispensing with an outer body and only having two wheels instead of four. There is no steering wheel—only a steering bar. Very economical!

But maintaining my sunny disposition in the face of such impossible cruelty couldn‘t last. Bicycle didn’t even have a radio, for heaven‘s sake. There was only one cupholder, and it was mounted at an angle! How stupid could the engineer possibly have been?.

I regret, dear reader, that I cannot even tell you where Bicycle is made. You see, most reputable automobile companies provide reviewers like myself with plane tickets so we can meet with spokespeople who answer such questions. (This may sound inconvenient, but spokespeople are usually based in pleasant places like Hawaii or Vale, so it’s really not really so bad.)

The makers of Bicycle, on the other hand, didn’t even include instructions on how to start the thing. Fortunately, I was able to observe as one of our office interns left on her Bicycle at the end of the day. The method for starting the motor—and I know this sounds crazy—is to place your feet on the foot platforms while spinning your legs clockwise around and around. This got me started alright, but whenever I stopped moving my legs, I coasted to a stop. Bicycle’s motor is clearly unreliable.

The next serious difficulty I encountered was where to put the gas. I thought it might be underneath the seat, but it wouldn’t move when I tried to lift it. I pushed the only button that was there, but that just made the brake light flash. Amazingly, I never ran out of fuel during the entire test period, which I suppose is proof enough of Bicycle’s efficiency.

Climate control? None. Safety systems? Minimal—Bicycle’s crash protection system consists of a crash helmet!

Bicycle has a few plusses, despite it’s many faults. Parking is a breeze and usually free, although be prepared for condescending looks from valets. It also has a lovely horn that produces a charming dingley-dingley noise when you flick a switch on the steering bar. I’ve asked my Mercedes dealer if such a horn could be installed on my S-Class, but sadly, the technology appears to be proprietary to Bicycle.

The best plus, however, was something I didn’t even notice until the last day of my test drive. I’d been so busy cursing Bicycle’s shortcomings that I hadn’t bothered to see all the other Bicycle drivers on the road. They nodded jolly greetings to me from across intersections, or said hello if they passed me.

Motorists mostly give each other the finger, but Bicycle owners clearly have a sense of community.

I’m not saying you should rush out and purchase a Bicycle for yourself. My suit got sweaty one day, my loafers got wet on another, and the crash helmet always mussed up my hair. Still, a new Bicycle costs less than what you’d pay to fix a fender on a Honda Civic, and used ones are cheaper than some drinks I‘ve ordered.

My happiest Bicycle experience happened during the final hour of my test drive. It happened to be a Friday at the end of the month, and I encountered a group of several dozen Bicycle drivers who were holding a parade. They invited me to join in, and it ended with all of us cheering and lifting our Bicycles into the air.

It was delightful.

-Robert Drinkwater-

Darwinist reflects on the bird flipped to the Decemberbike commuter

he’s in the driver’s seat bare-midriffed girl beside him exposing taut tanning bed belly to heater’s blast

his own unpadded jeans pull against gym-toned thighs he knows he works hard for this hold on the good life

in the muffled biker’s lumpen form he doesn’t see a threat

but it enters his hindbrain via pheromones like crystal knives cutting away civilization with the urgent message:

here is a stronger male animal.

-Anna Marie Sewell-