Portland, Oregon is famous for three things: having a lot of rain, rivaling only Brooklyn in the size of its hipster demographic, and being a great place for bicyclists of all shapes. From “spandex warriors” astride sleek racing bikes to scruffy college kids tooling about on fixies, the city’s streets are teeming with cyclists. The City of Portland has caught on to their appeal, as well as their environmental and economical benefits, and has made significant accommodations for those who bike–bike racks are plentiful, special bicycle lanes have been built into many of the streets, and best of all, the TriMet public transportation system is totally bike-friendly.
For me, coming from suburban Maryland, this was quite a change. I grew up in a place where everyone drives everywhere (often in a minivan or SUV)–even to the store 2 minutes away. When I was little, we lived in a fairly walkable neighborhood–one could easily stroll to the library or grocery store–but when I was about 5, we moved a bit further outside of town, to the heart of the suburbs. Here, the only sidewalks to be found were in the residential developments, and just to walk to the nearest convenience store required crossing a 4-lane, 50 mph bypass. The only bicyclists I ever saw were the lithe, muscled types dressed in skin-tight clothing and goggles, who were mostly ignored or scoffed at by motorists, and who always seemed to be putting their lives on the line by choosing to bike on windy suburban roads with little to no shoulder lane. There was a bike shop in my town–a single bike shop–but it went out of business after a few years. My parents bought me a bike from this shop when I was in middle school, which I got some use out of, mostly just riding in circles around my neighborhood (and never up hills). High school came, and I went to boarding school, leaving my bike to gather dust in the garage.
But then, this fall, I moved to Portland and started college. I was excited to get into the biking culture, maybe learn a thing or two about bikes, and get my own proper set of wheels. Portland–in sharp contrast to Bel Air, Maryland–is an eminently walkable city, full of sidewalks, crossing signals (and entitled pedestrians who ignore them at will), and food carts only accessible by foot. But walking and taking the bus everywhere gets a little boring after a while.
So, knowing next to nothing about bikes, I began searching on (what else?) Craigslist for a cheap mode of conveyance. I didn’t have much luck in finding an inexpensive, properly sized bike at first–being 5’2″, most adult-sized bikes out there are too big for me. Last Friday, though, I happened to check the listings and saw the following: “Lady’s Vintage 1o-speed Steel-Framed Gem $50 obo.” The listing specified that the bike was a periwinkle blue, hybrid bike from the 70s–and sized to fit a person the exact same height as me. Perfect!, I thought, and immediately e-mailed the seller.
The next day, I journeyed across the Willamette River to the Hawthorne district to pick up my new old bike. The woman who sold it to me was very friendly–and indeed, my same height–and as far as I could tell, the bike seemed fine (though the tires needed air). So, with my petite steel steed in tow, I made my way to the nearest bike shop–a tiny establishment called Joe Bike–to get air in the tires, essential accessories, and maybe some advice on repairs.
I think I was lucky in my random choice of a bike shop. It was really just the most convenient one, but my experience there was nothing less than pleasurable. Upon entering the shop, I was pleased to see that the employees were both women. This may seem like a strange thing to be happy about, but I’ll explain: The world of outdoor pursuits–hiking, biking, boating, and all other such activities–is, like almost every other industry, traditionally male-dominated. I know that not all male bike mechanics are sexist assholes, but as a young woman living in this society, I have learned to expect to be treated condescendingly in many areas of day-to-day life. It’s just par for the course, and there isn’t too much I can do about it–though it still royally pisses me off. Thus I was put at ease by seeing that both mechanics working in Joe Bike that day were female. I didn’t have to worry so much about being swindled, talked down to, or treated as just a stupid girl who doesn’t know anything. I didn’t have to feel like I had to “prove” myself to some macho bike dude.
One of the employees, a thin woman with several tattoos, piercings, and a telltale smudge of grease across her face, soon pumped up my tires and gave the bike a quick once-over. She was almost intimidatingly knowledgable about bikes, rattling off terms and definitions with ease. She appraised the bike as being in remarkably good condition for its age, remarked that the tires probably should be replaced in about a year, and confirmed that the chain was in good shape. She said I should ride it first before investigating possible repairs–to see if “anything rattled or made a strange noise.”
I took the bike outside for a quick spin around the block. It was the first time I’d ridden a bike in 4 years. The bike seemed fine to me, though I couldn’t figure out how to use the gearshift. I was pleased. I took the bike back to the shop, outfitted it with several accessories (bike rack, lights, bell, and a strong U-shaped lock) that ended up costing over twice as much as the bike itself, and wheeled it out into the rainy Portland night.
Here is where my problems began. I didn’t notice when I was riding the bike on flat ground, but as I pedaled downhill towards the Hawthorne bridge, I began to notice that the brakes were barely functional. At high speeds, and perhaps in combination with the slick pavement, bringing the bike to a stop took at least ten or fifteen seconds. And it wasn’t the kind that can be stopped by pedaling backwards.
I guess I could’ve taken it back to the shop, but it was getting late. I deemed it too dangerous to bike across the bridge with my bike in its current condition. I was forced to take the bus.
Remember how I said that Portland has a thriving bike culture? Well, that same culture can also be quite pretentious. I love Portland, but I find this aspect of it less than appealing. I suppose it’s to be expected, but if you’re not a Bike Expert, you’re not bound to get much sympathy.
When the bus pulled up, I realized that I didn’t actually know how to operate the built-in bike rack. Not wanting to fumble around trying to do it myself, I asked the bus driver to help me. He gave an exaggerated sigh, rolled his eyes and begrudgingly got out of the bus to give me a hand, seeming rather angry as he did so. “I’m sorry,” I tried to tell him. “I’ve never done this before!” Then, when I got on the bus, already feeling self-conscious about my bike-n00b status, I noticed several passengers looking at me disdainfully. One woman even gave me a mocking smirk. (I should note that when I got off the bus downtown, a friendly man in a leather jacket helped me put the rack back up–so I guess they’re not all total pricks…)
Eventually, my bike and I made it back to campus, albeit rather soaked (as I’d stupidly forgotten to wear a rain jacket). And so ended Day 1 of my Portland Bike Adventure.
The next day, I dragged my light blue charge back to the city, to see how much repairs would cost. Out of sheer convenience, I took it to Bike Gallery, a large, upscale shop downtown. The mechanic there looked it over and presented me with somewhat dismal news. He didn’t seem to think much of my bike–he implied that I’d probably just be better off buying a brand-new one–and recommended that I get a complete tune-up, replace the gear cables and brake pads, and put on new wheels. The total for all of this work–including parts–would cost me around $180.
Ouch.
I thanked him politely, said I’d consider it, and immediately called Joe Bike, who gave me a much more agreeable estimate of around $100 (excluding wheels, which I don’t think are totally necessary anyway). Still quite a pretty penny–but at least I was saving some cash. And hey, it’s a good investment, right?
Joe Bike was closing before I could get there that same night, so I had to wait until today to take my bike in for its extended doctor’s visit. It rained again, of course. This time, though, I knew how to operate the bike rack. And I had the added fortune of meeting an extremely friendly middle-aged man at the bus stop, who gave me a lot of unsolicited advice on what repairs my bike needed (he pointed out that the front wheel was loose–which I’d overlooked), how much I should pay someone to do it ($75 or $100 tops, he said), and how I could do it myself (buy a 6-inch “kessler” (?) wrench at “the ninety-nine cent store”). He also, seemingly randomly, asked me if I spoke Spanish. I replied yes, a little bit, and he immediately launched into something about the height of the seat, how I “appeared Latina,” and how it’s a “small world.” That part confused me.
Anyway, I now have a semi-functioning bike, that has broken my bank but raised my spirits. Once it gets patched up, I should have a trusty machine that can last me for at least the next few years (or until it gets stolen). And now I can join the illustrious ranks of Portland cyclists.
I feel cooler already. Walking is for squares, man!
Oh–before I go–here’s what sage advice my mother bestowed me with, in terms of getting one’s bike repaired: “Look for guys in tight shorts, pony tails, and grease under the fingernails.” Words to live by!
Tags: adventures, being a girl, college, hipsters, Portland
