There she is. That's my baby, parked outside of the Ota train station. (She’s the dark pink one in front. I tend to take lots of pictures of her so I don’t forget where she’s parked.) Okay, so this mama-chari isn’t really much to look at up close. She’s a bit rusty, the basket is caved-in in one corner, the bell is broken, the seat is all scratched up, and the front fender is slightly askew. Not that most mama-charis are anything special. They’re one speed, heavy, and you’re seated low down so that your legs never stretch out for much power or comfort.
But, my bicycle gets me from point A to point B with ease and means I have to spend a lot less time under the hot sun each day. I’ve learned to navigate the often narrow and uneven sidewalks and I have found ways to avoid some of the uber-long traffic lights on my way downtown. I no longer fear sliding into a rice paddy and the cars phase me a little less than they did two weeks ago. I can even scratch my nose without careening into a tree now. In fact, last week I caught myself in mid-“wee” on the way down a slope. Can you believe it? Thank you, zayda for getting me up on two wheels so many years ago.
Ah, but when she’s good, I’m good, and when she’s not, well… I’m a hot, sticky, unhappy mess.
On Tuesday, I hop on my bike and start to peddle from school to the Ota city hall for my Japanese lessons. I ride for maybe about 10 metres when I hear a sound kinda like, “waka, waka, waka.” And, the ride is bumpy as hell. I have a flat. Back to the school, pump some air, and I’m off again. But, I don’t make it to the city hall before, “waka, waka, waka.” Shit! After class I end up walking the darn thing half an hour all the way home. Now what?
Wednesday arrives and I have to walk, WALK, to school where I explain my problem. Thank goodness for the kindness of teachers. They are able to find a bike shop for me that’s not too far way. They even call ahead for me.
So, under the blazing mid-day sun I escort my bike about 30 minutes to the repair shop. The sun is directly above me and it is hot. I have never been as sweaty in my entire life. Pools are somehow collecting under my eyes, on the back of my neck, behind my knees, all over. I stop periodically under the shade of a bridge to try and towel off a bit, but it’s useless.
Finally, I arrive at the bike shop. The repairman is expecting me, which is a good thing, because beyond “punc, punc”, I am unable to communicate much more. Sure enough, her back tire has a puncture. It’s demonstrated for me, several times, in a bucket of water.
With very quick hands, the repair is completed and she’s as good as new. (Or in this case, as good as old.) He charges me 1,000 yen for the repair, which is apparently a discount – yes, likely the regular discount price.
By 12:45 pm, I’m off and riding again. Just in time for my Japanese class and a complement on my cool bike from a classmate.
Oh, so good to have her back. I think I should name her. How’s, Magenta!? With the exclamation mark of course. Magenta!, no more punc, okay?
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