In life as in literature, foreshadowing is obvious to the obtuse only in retrospect. Looking back, I should have known that the joke Liru told me the day she helped me buy my bicycle last fall carried with it an undercurrent of doom. The joke went something like this…
A man who wanted to make certain that no one would steal his bicycle put ten locks on it and a sign taunting any prospective thieves as well: “I’d like to see you steal this bike!” A thief passing by read the sign and took offense. He bought an eleventh lock and clamped it on, along with a sign of his own: “I’d like to see you try to ride it!”
Perhaps I should view the theft of my own bicycle this spring as a kind of blessing, for I couldn’t say that I had truly lived in Suzhou for a year unless I’d lost at least one. Such a loss is a bonding experience, and now, after having my first bike stolen, I’m practically a native.
It was only after bemoaning the loss of my bicycle that I discovered just how prevalent such theft is in Suzhou. My tutor Yuanyuan has had five bikes stolen during her years of study and work in this “Venice of the East.” Zhou, my contact at the foreign affairs office, noted that he and his wife and child had lost eight bicycles to thieves in recent years. Then there was the Chinese teacher I met on a trip to Wuxi who had ten stolen in a single year. At that point, I think I would conclude that the universe did not intend for me to own a bike, but my new friend wasn’t deterred. He bought an eleventh and was still able to laugh about it when he told me the story. Maybe laughter in such circumstances is the only way to stave off despair. As the comedian Chris Rock once noted, comedy is the blues for people who can’t sing. This must explain why there are so many bicycle theft jokes circulating in Suzhou these days.
The high rate of bike theft is perplexing, as the crime here is negligible in other respects. I feel perfectly safe walking alone anywhere at any hour in Suzhou--a claim that I surely couldn’t make about my home in the US, Baltimore, where a short stroll alone through some neighborhoods at night would not be far removed from suicide. The low crime rate derives in large measure from China’s harsh penal code. China leads the world in executions, and the country has more than sixty capital offenses. Evidently, bicycle theft isn’t among them and has slipped through the cracks of the code altogether.
For about a week after my bike was stolen, I tried to make do on foot. I quickly discovered just how dependent upon my bike I had become. I mourned its loss like that of an old friend. Getting anywhere took four or five times longer, and I was deprived of a cooling breeze just as the return of the Suzhou heat had made it necessary again. I concluded that I could not go on this way. However, I would not make the same mistake twice.
Back in September, Liru had convinced me to buy a new rather than a used bicycle on the grounds that I could avoid having to make costly repairs along the way. This proved true enough, and at about $50 USD, the cost of a new bike was hardly exorbitant. My new bike had a spiffy purple paint job and an eye-catching Phoenix label on the frame. And, aside from needing a new chain, the bike proved very reliable, requiring no other repairs during the seven months that I owned it. But what I hadn’t counted on was that all that made the bicycle attractive to me would make it attractive to others as well, including the thief who eventually stole it. For my second bike in China, I decided to look for that special bicycle, one just barely good enough to get me around but so bad otherwise that a lock would be superfluous.
It didn’t take long to find such a bike, and it cost me only $7 USD. Or at least that was the cost upfront. My battered bicycle has rust on the frame, rust on the rims, rust even on the spokes. The rust on the back fender is so severe that it severed the metal and made a terrible racket when the fender collapsed on the tire the day that I bought it. I solved that problem by rigging the fender in place with a twisted clothes hanger. I sometimes see people laughing at that when I pass by, but this bicycle was not bought to win beauty contests. The handlebars are bent and give the impression that I’m constantly turning. The breaks squeak well enough, but their bark is better than their bite. At best, they only slow me down, and coming to a complete stop requires a firm drag of the feet. This has led to a few harrowing moments on mornings when I’m running late to catch the Wenzheng bus, racing down the Dongwu Bridge and praying to Christ, Buddha, Lao Tzu, and Mao that no one gets in my way.
My Chinese friends call a bicycle like mine a tank, just as Americans call a used car that’s backfiring or dragging its muffler down the street a bomb. Tanks and bombs share the trait of needing a combination of ingenuity and cash to keep them going. This has been true of my tank as well, and, unfortunately, most of the problems have been beyond my powers to solve by twisting clothes hangers. It all began a few minutes after I bought the bike. My friend Yimin had come with me to help if I needed translating during the purchase, and, as she departed, I told her to wish me good luck on my maiden voyage. I’d not pedaled more than ten feet before the chain fell off. A worn-out crank was the culprit and had to be replaced. Soon the treadless front tire and its dry-rotted tube had to go, followed by the back inner-tube as well. Then, a couple of close calls on Dongwu Bridge convinced me something really had to be done about those brakes. The new brake pads do help, though a little foot-dragging is still required.
All told, the cost of repairs has already exceeded the original price. You might think I have regrets, knowing that I could have spent my money more wisely and bought a better bike to begin with, but I’m not complaining. In Suzhou, there’s inherent value in having a tank that no one would want to swipe. Rusted frame and rusted wheels, bent handlebars and fenders hanging by a metal thread: these are features money can’t buy and no thief will touch. Who, in the waning weeks of his year in China, could ask for anything more?
