Riding My Bike

This is my trusty bike that take me to and from jiujitsu across town most evenings of the week.

I strap on my helmet and carry my bright blue fixed gear road bike across the overpass that connects my building with my neighbors’. The sight of the mountains on the horizon and the bright blue sky takes my breath away with their beauty as I stare out across the landscape before I take the elevator 15 floors down to street level. It’s 5:15 pm and it’s the height of rush hour. I plunge into the flow of cars passing the entrance to my building and I’m on my way, weaving in and out of traffic. I pedal past cart vendors and busses and stop at the bicycle shop for air in my tires. I’m on my way again, the crisp late afternoon air is warm and breezy against my skin and the sun warms my face. The traffic is backed up to a near crawl, and I zoom past the bumper to bumper traffic, delighted that I am faster than the BMWs and Mercedes and other fancy SUVs that I don’t know the name of that glint and shine with polish in the sun. 

I can’t go too fast because I am constantly weaving in and out of cars. The construction for the city’s first subway line is well underway and has wreaked havoc with the traffic—my street is now one way, and the once open and lively bazaar is enclosed on all sides by tall blue tin walls that “protect yours, mine, and their safety” during the construction. I make it to the center of the city and I stop at a red light, marveling at the near silence that envelopes me in the middle of a long line of cars heading home after a tiring day’s work. I can hardly believe my ears and I wonder if the government has instigated a no-honking campaign. We sit together quietly underneath towering skyscrapers interrupted by the dome of a mosque as we wait for the light to turn green. 

I make it to the gym and the ladies at the front desk greet me with smiles and hellos (“back so soon!” they exclaim). I teach class but I forget that three of my students don’t even know what jiujitsu is, so when I tell them to get in cexiang yazhi (side control), they stare at me with blank faces. I try to accommodate both the beginners and the more advanced students. After class, I stay for an extra 30 minutes rolling, stretching, and catching up with my gym-mates. One of my coaches warns me to change out of my rash guard lest I get cold, and to wear my helmet on the ride home. 

When I leave the gym, it’s already completely dark. A man outside is selling strawberries for 10 kuai a kilo. I buy half a kilo and put them in my backpack. The bus stop attendant recognizes me and we exchange pleasantries before I hop on my bike and head home. The ride home is uphill and it takes me almost twice as long to get home. 

It’s dinner time and I can taste the spicy peppers the restaurants are cooking with. I ride past the business district ablaze with massive jumbo-trons blazing blinding light full of never-ending commercials for tea that helps you fall asleep and lose weight, and the new home you’ve always dreamed of. The road is lined with towering concrete office buildings covered in flashing neon lights with Chinese restaurants on the street level. I can see through the large windows of the tables full of male suited businessmen negotiating over drinks and apparently very spicy food.

When I get home, I’m too exhausted to cook. I wash and eat the strawberries but I can taste the pesticide. I eat them anyway, hoping the vitamins from the fruit will cancel out any bad effects. I take a cold shower and collapse into bed too tired to even get dressed or brush my hair. I know it’s going to be a good year. Tiring as hell, lonely like nothing else, challenging, but good. The insomnia I struggled with since last summer seems to have abated with the powerful tug of jetlag and soon I’m lost in sleep, dreaming of the friends I left behind in the States.