Why I do This

The telltale squeaky, creaky sound of a poorly maintained bicycle is to me what the plaintive meow of an ill-fed kitten is to a cat-lover. It strikes a chord in me and I yearn to reach out and help. But most of the time I don’t, not because I’m too busy or apathetic, but merely because it would be socially unacceptable. Few people welcome unsolicited advice and even fewer would be pleased to find a stranger tinkering with their chained-up bikes. So instead, I brood.

I get this same feeling whenever I see someone riding a bike too small for him, or someone perched precariously on a ludicrously angled bike seat, screeching to stop at a red light. Ditto for those bikes with upside-down drop bars that effectively raise the handlebars but make the brake levers almost unusable. Or commuters sporting the infamous skunk stripe down their backs because they lack fenders. Or city riders suffering over potholes and fixing needless flats because they ride skinny tires at obscene pressures. Or college students who resemble hunchbacks on wheels, laden down with their monstrous backpacks. Or folks laboring up hills on bikes that have been changed overnight from 10-speeds to 2-speeds by a broken rear derailleur. In the face of all this I brood.

I tell myself that not everybody cares as much as I do about his bike. Some people are perfectly content to ride their junkers around town since they never spend more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time on them. But wouldn’t they be happier on a smoothly functioning, comfortable bike, even if only for those 15 minutes a day? And wouldn’t they, in fact, be encouraged to ride their bikes even more (and drive their cars less) if they didn’t get a stiff neck or a sore butt after 20 minutes in the saddle?

As a professional pauper, I’m perfectly aware that many folks don’t have wads of cash to burn on new bikes. I’m also aware that durable, new bikes below $400 are practically non-existent. So what’s an average Jane or Joe to do? Even in big, bike-friendly metro areas like the SF Bay, used bike stores are few and far in between and the pickings are slim. Even most co-ops have realized that they need to focus on selling new bikes if they want to stick around.

I try to provide another option. As a hobbyist, I don’t have much in the way of operating costs and I don’t expect to make much money. These are the only reasons I’m able to provide restored, ready-to-ride bikes at a reasonable cost. In a place like this, with a high demand for used bikes, I still pay way more than I would elsewhere for my bikes and that puts a limit on how cheaply I can re-sell them after restoration. But I charge almost nothing for my labor—really, it usually works out to something pathetic, like $2/hour—and I try to buy my replacement parts cheaply, so in the end I can afford to sell a good used bike for less than a bike shop can.

You might reasonably ask, “Why the hell would you do this if you’re not making any money (and you’re an admitted pauper, not some idle, trust-fund baby)?” The answer is as pathetic as it is true: I’m an addict. Really, I can’t help it. When I’m immersed in a project, I feel good. When I sell a great bike to someone who’s going to ride the piss out of it, I feel even better. And when this is done, I find myself itching like a fiend to move on to the next project. It’s a vicious cycle and I can’t seem to escape it. Fortunately, this is one addiction that you can benefit from. Whether you’re a bike noob looking for an efficient means of transport on the cheap, or a cycling fanatic who wants to try out touring or randonneuring without breaking the bank, my sickness can probably aid you. Don’t feel bad. If you weren’t helping me get my fix, I’d be out on the streets begging for bent derailleurs and busted pedals.