The Invention of the Wheels

This story, like so many others in my life, begins in a Wal-Mart. But this Wal-Mart wasn't the one I'm so fond of back home in Tennessee- where ne'er do well county kids get high in the parking lot and I'm bound to run into at least 4 ladies from church, no. This Wal-Mart is in the "Business Zone" of downtown Changzhou. I remember the first time I saw it- a bright blue beacon of Western entrepreneurship in the bustling district I like to call "White Plaza." I know that if I ever get lost, I need only go to Nian Dai Xue bus stop and I will be sure to find my group. If they aren't in McDonald's, try H&M. No luck there? Check Dairy Queen. Starbucks is right up the escalator. If someone has some serious Yuan to blow, check Cartier, right across the street. And if all else fails, Wal-Mart is the ticket. There you have it, White Plaza. But on this particular night, I wasn't downtown to get a McDouble, or drop some RMB on a Swedish shirt. I was in the Bicycle Hunting business. On a previous trip to Wal-Mart, I had noticed that right past the "Washes The Thing" section (How 'bout that Engrish, eh?) was a long row of bicycles. After several minutes of cajoling by my colleagues and the successful ATMization of my American Express, I found myself in the market for a shiny new bike. I was not willing to spend more than $50 USD. I felt this was the perfect amount of money. The price was high enough to assure that the bicycle would support my hearty, fried bologna-fed American body without collapsing, but low enough that I could justify bequeathing the bicycle to the Chinese upon my departure. When I found the bike that was just right for me, I requested a test drive from the salesman. You see, buying a bicycle in China is a little like buying a car in the United States (I assume). While many people have actual cars, a lot of people use mopeds, and even more use bicycles as their sole means of conveyance. So, in essence, I was buying a White Trash car. I wanted to make sure the frame was lightweight, for curb hopping and other such commuting shenanigans, and that the seat could support my unusual height and girth. This bike satisfied all my requirements, and I wheeled my purchase toward the checkout. At 380 Yuan, it was right at my budget of $50 USD. I was feeling pretty smart. Until some EngLish speaking Chinese people saved me from possible idiocy with an Ancient Chinese Secret. They pulled me aside, explaining that bikes from the supermarket were overpriced and prone to collapse. After the hushed and strangely urgent conversation, I wheeled the bike into the stationery aisle and went on my merry way. Just like purchasing a car, I felt I should probably sleep on it. And that's exactly what I did. The next morning, I woke up, watched some pirated Seinfeld, and hit the streets with my friend Sam. We had made the mutual pledge not to return to the school until we had found a bicycle, and the smoggy air was full of hope. We walked for quite some time until coming to the Bank of China. This money lending machine is usually a surefire bastion of the English language, and this particular visit upheld that reputation. After a combination of broken Chinese, broken Engrish, and a whole lot of charades, a uniformed guard personally escorted us down the block to a bicycle shop. (Ah, it's good to be American.) The guard stood by the door, lit a cigarette, and prepared himself for an hour of Clueless White Dudes Attempting to Purchase a Bicycle. The shopkeeper was much less excited by the arrival of us moneyed foreigners as I thought he would be, but we perused the shop nonetheless. He had quite a few unassembled bikes, and he was building one for some locals while we browsed. I did my part, pointing and grunting at my various choices, and Sam helped with his Chinese. I refused the man's attempt to sell me a bike obviously designed for women (no crossbar, covered with flowers) and instead picked a couple on my own. I found one plausible option, a nice navy blue framed kit, nothing flashy. I gestured to this model and was informed that this was essentially "The People's Bike." As a product of post-Cold War America, I knew that "People's" meant shoddy quality. I also knew that People's=Commoner's. And I might be an unpaid teacher living in a 12x15 studio apartment who eats food out of tin bowls and sleeps on a wooden bed, but I am NOT a commoner. The salesman quickly offered some more opulent models. I was shown a teal bicycle, assured it was good quality, and eventually purchased it. I hated the color, but decided to settle. Sam was checking out a funky Asian bike, one that was low to the ground with a funky, curved frame. As Sam was investigating the other model, the tiny Asian salesman descended the stairs with an unassembled black frame. I was moderately irate. I had already paid for my bike, and here he was, waving this black beauty in my face?! Not ok. I felt like an idiot. The teal bike was maybe fine for a little jaunt around St. Bart's, or something along those lines, but my bike was to be used in the gritty streets of Changzhou. This is a town with smog so thick and dangerous that breathing the air has the same effect on a person's lungs as 2 packs of cigarettes per day. Not making that up. I obviously needed something a little more austere. And this beastly black bicycle was just that. I began to gesture frantically to the salesman, expressing my newfound distaste for the teal bike and my hopeless love for the black one. He took the hint. Laughing openly at my ridiculous, urgent charades and American indecisiveness, he began to assemble the black one for me, right in my face. It's like going to the Mercedes-Benz factory in Germany and watching them build your custom S500. It was awesome. I could almost see Chairman Mao nodding in approval. This bike was solid black, fender to fender. The paint job made all the difference. Why ride a preposterous teal jellybean when I could have something so much more professional, austere, and undeniably Communist? On the crossbar was a simple inscription in white- "Classic Bicycle." I envisioned my self proudly peddling through the Forbidden City, a poster child for workingmen everywhere. If the other bike was for the People, this was the bike of a Party member. I was honestly shocked that I didn't receive a complimentary carton of The People's Cigarettes with my new ride. It was minimalist, solid, and understated. In other words, everything I am not. I think that's why I love it so much. Once he was finished, I mounted the bicycle, pretentiously checking the tire pressure and brakes. Finding them both adequate, I charaded my approval and appreciation. I gave a cautionary ring of my bell as I left the store, and Sam and I morphed into the notoriously hectic Chinese traffic. The 15 minute cycle home was doubtlessly the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. Never before have I almost died so many times. Within the first few minutes, I was confronted with a cluster of taxis making an illegal left hand turn, a city bus driving on the wrong side of the double yellow line, and some shenanigans with a fruit cart. I loved it. My proclivity for white-knuckled reckless driving has found its home here in Asia. Now I get a lot of stares here in this Glorious Nation. But picture this: a loud, 6'5" White kid with red Wayfarers, going to town on a vanilla ice cream cone from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now put that same ridiculous foreigner astride a bicycle, and the attention reaches Kardashian levels. Can't say I'm hatin' it. I spent the rest of the day peddling through euphoria. That night, Sam sent me on an errand to the grocery store for some Oreos and whatnot. I peddled proudly down the street  to the store. Once I was there, I locked my bike up with the hundreds of others and strode on into the store with my all my swagga. Once inside, I was deciding whether or not it was a good decision to buy a 2.5 liter bottle of Sprite when a group of girls came up and started talking to me. "Excuse me, but I see you are maybe having the troubles? Maybe you want that I can be of assist to you?" After telling the girl that her English was good (THE highest honor for these people, trust me) I explained that I was just pricing some Sprite. The talkative girl proceeded to tell me that I was handsome and "powerful, like Superman." (Single White Males of the Universe in need of an ego boost, go to China. Trust me.) I laughed, sufficiently embarrassed. I then pointed out that I was the proud owner of a brand new bicycle. "She's parked right out front. The black one." And the line worked. China is the only nation I know of where a grown(ish) man can use a bicycle with a basket and bell as a pick up line. Great honor and prosperity for me, I suppose. But I guess that's China for you. And it seems that the more I try to wedge myself into this topsy-turvy nation, the more I love it. For now, look for the giant foreigner- the one with the ceaselessly ringing bell- doing a surprisingly good job blending into the sea of Asian cyclists. And loving every minute of it.