As Frank and I are the former owners of EIGHT bikes (that’s the latest count) [*UPDATE as of January 11, 2005 - we're at 11 now, apparently stolen by workers wanting to return to their hometowns for Chinese New Year and haven't been paid by their bosses as they were promised*] which were stolen here in Beijing despite being locked (two even with an American Kryptonite lock), I have decided to tackle the oh-so-important-in-China subject tonight of bicycles.
As you may have heard, bicycles are the pre-eminent means of transportation in China. If the car is king in America, the bicycle is freely-elected president in China. Almost every major city devotes much of its city streets to bicycle lanes, one on each side of the street. Even though car sales in China are enough to make the VPs at Ford and GM grin from ear-to-ear at the sight of every quarterly report, bicycles have ruled the road since Liberation in China and they are certainly not about to give up without a fight. Lest we not forget, one of Deng Xiaoping's campaign promises when he rose to power in the late 1970s was "a Flying Pigeon in every household." (what is a Flying Pigeon?, you ask – keep reading). He must’ve kept his word on that promise because standing at any crossroads in Beijing during the morning or afternoon rush-hour, one will find an impressive flow of bicycles, in all weather conditions, anytime of the year. Beijingers think nothing of riding for an hour and a half to work each day and back. The squeaky two-wheelers can be seen moving in inexorable streams along city streets and country backroads. Last I could tell, China had 500 million bicycles by 1987 – one bicycle for every two people of its population (yes, that is a lot, even for a 17-year-old statistic). Some people have called China "The Bicycle Kingdom of the World". If that’s true, Beijing must be the capital of the Bicycle Kingdom, with its number of bicycles that must be counted by the millions.
KINDS OF BICYCLES/A LITTLE HISTORY
For many decades, particularly in the Cultural Revolution, bikes in China were all black or dark blue (no one could be fancier than anyone else) and were all the classic, steel-framed kind – non-suspension, single-geared, heavy, and lasting forever. This bicycle style is, hands down, the best kind in the world, according to Brandi and Frank (but whaddatheyknow?), and we will be sad to return home without one of these in tow. Though shiny mountain bikes are steadily gaining popularity, these old-style bikes still dominate the roads, its drivers (many of whom are older comrades) having little regard for the rules of the road. Most cyclists on this kind of bike cruise through town with a kind of age-old haplessness, for they are the generation that brought the bicycle into real power in China. At the forefront of this whole bicycle phenomenon in the PRC is 1) the Fei Ge (Flying Pigeon brand) and 2) Yong Jiu (Shanghai Forever brand). The Flying Pigeons were originally hatched at the Tianjin Bicycle Company, a former Japanese-artillery factory from the ‘30’s, but after the Communists came to power in 1949, The Great Helmsman, Mao Zedong, sent his heir to the factory to declare that it should be the first bicycle manufacturer in New China. The name Fei Ge (literally 'flying dove') was originally chosen as an expression for peace amidst the raging war in Korea. However, the Chinese word gezi can be translated as either dove or pigeon. For some inexplicable reason the latter was used. Why this scruffy, vermin-with-wings was chosen to represent the nation's most prominent bicycle trademark may forever remain a mystery (much like we wonder about how the t-shirt translations we see around town came about). Lore has it that ‘pigeon’ was selected because it is regarded as a working-class fowl. Now, a half century later, there are around 200 different Fei Ge models, ranging from ladies' 'princess' bikes to men's 'king' mountain bikes.
Other than your classic-style roadster, there are all kinds of models/brands on the road offering the citizens of this quasi-capitalist/not-really-communist country different colors, styles, sizes, and speeds.
There’s the electric power-assist bicycle, mostly ridden by older women who don’t want to pedal. These cool cats easily blow by me in traffic.
Then there’s the utility bike. The role of these utility bikes really cannot be overstated. Cargo transport is their main function. They are probably used as much as any of the other main modes of transport in China (air, auto, rail), but more for within-the-city deliveries. And they are everywhere in the city. These bikes are like humongous tricycles with a carrier rack on the back. It is unbelievable what these skinny-legged cyclist-men carry behind them, some I’d imagine with a 400 lb. load, stacked as high as the tall overpass bridges they go under. I’ve seen ‘em stop before a bridge to re-tie their load. It’s a masterpiece how they perfectly fit and tie up each thing on there. It wobbles a whole lot, but not once have I ever seen a cyclist spill out his goods onto the street.
RULES OF THE ROAD (only kind of)
No one uses helmets, no one wears lycra, and no one uses the nifty little pedal straps. What they do do is ride one-handed with a parasol in the other hand (on sunny days). On rainy days, out they come with their all-in-one raincapes, and the city streets resemble a throng of two-wheeled monks - all cowled in blue, red, or yellow plastic against the elements. Nothing stops them.
Another thing I have frequently witnessed is the "critical mass" events of Beijing cyclists. This occurs when a growing number of cyclists accumulate at one edge of the intersection, and then, when they have built up enough mass, move through the intersection (of course, regardless of the traffic light's status) as other traffic yielded.
BIKE REPAIRS
No appointment needed (or possible). Bike repair stations are on every corner and in between each corner. If you need to air up your front tire, just stop where you are. Look around you and you’ll see at least three choices of stations to decide from. More later on our favorite Beijinger, Chang Wen Sheng, who happens to be our bicycle repairman.
OTHER FUNCTIONS : Selling things and offering services
Nowadays, peddlers with musical instruments are rapidly decreasing. For the ones that are left - these guys are like a one-man band, cruising around town demonstrating the high-quality of their instruments to prospective customers. Much of this decrease in instrument peddlers has been due to the listing of the cobra on China’s endangered species list, whose skin is used on the covers of such instruments of which you’ve probably never seen the likes of before.
The knife/scissor sharpeners still blow their bugles, and roving barbers (2 yuan per trim – $.20) still strike an instrument that looks like a tuning fork for those needing a quick trim, but still, there are fewer and fewer of these mobile salesmen each passing year as China modernizes. People still shout, or offer their ware for sale. By their cries, you know exactly what they are selling, be it ice-cream, syrup-coated hawthorns, persimmons, wonton soup, or baked sweet potatoes. Some sell goldfish, guppies, frogs, and turtles from the ten-gallon tank strapped on the back of the bike, and some (these guys are my personal favorite because of their bizarre yells/yodels) allow you to trade in yesterday’s beer bottles for newly-filled ones (for 1.2 yuan per liter – or about $.20, much cheaper than the water here). Two old men come by our place 2-3 times a day, and we can hear him from the seventh floor with music/TV on and are able to distinguish between the two beer companies by their cries. I only wish I could attach a sound clip of these guys.
STORAGE/PARKING
Bike storage is heroically addressed throughout China with two types of parking: 1) self-serve, and 2) attended bike parking stations. On self-serve: to lock your bike, most people secure it with simple wheel locks wherever they want to park it. I suppose they think their bike is heavy enough that nobody is just pick one up and carry it off (haha). Then, some places have a pay lot where an attendant stays onsite, and people deposit their coins into a box on a chair. Sections of sidewalks are dedicated to this kind of mass bike parking. Yes, as opposed to most places in the world, Beijing people actually have to pay to park their bike.
THEFT
Even though Beijing has been ranked as the #1 safest travel city in the world (two times, too), bike theft has become a serious problem here in Beijing. Beijingers have the "you-could-call-it-wise" idea that if they own a really old, terrible looking, beaten-up bike, it is less likely to be stolen. We have de-bunked that theory time and again. It does make you wonder, though, why smart-looking bikes are rarely sighted in Beijing. We do, however, see some deterring-looking locks and security devices, even on the worst looking bicycles. We’ve heard of one girl here that was determined not to get another bike stolen, so she bought six locks and strapped them all on at once. When she came out of the market, she found all six locks in the front basket of her bike. Props to that lock-picker – that is funny. Even though buying a beat-up bike is recommended, it is actually not that easy to buy a used bike legally. New bike stores are everywhere, but I rarely see new-looking ones on the road. There is a huge black market around town for stolen bikes. Unknowingly (sort of), a couple of times, we have bought from this band of thieves. It was shady. No names, no numbers, just a place and a time to meet with the cash to trade off the goods. After we handed over the bills, the boys took off running in different directions. We don’t do that anymore. I think the stolen bikes are somehow labeled, and they just steal them all over again. More likely, I think that they’ve tagged the laowai’s (foreigners’) bicycles in the neighborhood and nab us the first chance they get. Last week Frank had two stolen within an hour of when he parked them. They’re on the lookout for us, we’re convinced. We are definitely part of the supply chain for the aforementioned black market. I wouldn’t doubt it if we’ve re-bought one of our old bikes. Frank and I have what we call “bike envy”. To you Americanos, I liken it to a turn of the head when a new red corvette passes by (? - or whatever tickles your fancy). This happens when Frank and I catch a glimpse of a shiny new YongJiu. Our most recent method is finding a busy intersection, getting the cash ready in hand, waiting for that perfect bike to come along, walking up to the owner/running along side the owner, and offering them an on-the-spot sale. Two times out of four, it has worked (for me, at least). The price must be (too) right. Oh, well, we’re desperate.
ADVENTURES ON BIKE
In order to survive riding a bicycle in China's bustling, crowded capital, it seems necessary to be either brave, stupid or Chinese. I will never be the latter, and have yet to decide which of the first two is the most applicable. I do know that owning and riding one seems to be a key factor in feeling a sense of belonging here, rather than forever staying a an outsider. On two wheels, everyone is equal.
Except of course that they aren't. All but born in the saddle, China's cycling population has a distinct advantage over me, and this is only too painfully evident as I wobble along the street, desperately trying to avoid the other bikes coming at me from all directions (especially when I travel on the wrong side of the road). For those bike-drivers out there in Beijing that show superior skill in avoiding me, thank you for only giving me a surprised intake of breath (probably about two things: one, that it’s a foreign girl on a Chinese brand bike, and two, that he almost got knocked hard on the pavement), and not the customary muttered curse in Chinese hardly under the breath.
Other than going from point A to point B on bike, I think that the bicycle provides the best vantagepoint to really explore all the little crevices of Beijing. The taxis and the buses pass by too quickly to capture the details and get a true feel for what this rapidly changing city is like, where the affluent new seamlessly blends with the impoverished old. Either that, or I’m stuck in traffic on a bus, sitting in one place for several minutes and my interest in these little niches of Beijing is lost. The new (a lot of them empty) office buildings tower over these narrow alleyway houses that haven’t changed in centuries, and they can easily be missed in the shuffle. On two wheels, I can explore in between these juxtaposed places and see the hutong (old traditional alleyway) streets where old neighbor ladies sit on their overturned boxes, sipping hot tea and playing mah jhong. I can see women hanging their oversized underwear (which are unisex) out on the line. I can smell the boiling of noodles and the steaming of jiaozi (dumplings) at lunchtime. I can see an elderly gentleman, still wearing his faded blue Mao suit and Revolution-era cap, shuffling along in black cloth slippers as he takes his caged songbird out for their daily walk. I can watch as that same elderly gentleman passes scores of businessmen clad in western designer labels, sporting the latest mobile phones in hand.
WHAT’S IN THAT FRONT BASKET?
Any early morning outside of our apartment at the vegetable market you’re bound to see an old man (or two or fifty) taking his fresh-from-the-countryside-farm produce home in a towering basket of cabbages and live chickens that is almost twice his own size and allows him to barely see the road ahead. As he rounds the corner, he may wave to a lao taitai (old lady) friend that is heading to the market, dog in basket, with its ears perked up and paws hanging over the front, joyriding in the morning breeze/pollution. The old man may soon pass a courting couple as the young man pedals for two and she sits demurely side-saddle on the rear pannier. At the traffic light the old man steps his foot on the pavement for balance and spots a young mother to his right, her infant wrapped up and safely balanced in her front basket. Neither the elderly man or young mother pay any attention to the fearsome flag lady who blows her whistle furiously and raises a white-gloved hand in an attempt to restore order to the cycling horde, but her shouts go unheeded as the lights change. With a clatter of spokes and a ring of bells, both are lost in the surging tide of bikes. Left in the dust, the flag lady stands undaunted. She straightens the peak of her cap and unfurls her flags in readiness for the next flock of Flying Pigeons to fly through.
