Grandma Bike

So right now, everyone is really happy/sad about the election results. The economy sucks, unemployment is bashing old ladies in the neck, and the mortgage crisis continues to be a crisis I don’t fully understand. So, of course, these issues are on everybody’s minds. But being here in Japan has given me an amazing opportunity to see this election with a new perspective. It has helped me focus on what really matters.

My bike.

That’s right, my bike broke three days ago and things haven’t been the same since. The man at the bike shop basically said it was irreparable. This totally sucks, because it was a mountain bike. “But, Michael,” you may say, “Everyone owns a mountain bike. They’re not special.” Shut up, you idiot. Maybe in America everyone has awesome mountain, road, and BMX bikes, but not here in Japan. Over here basically every man, woman, and child rides a pathetic, gray, one-speed grandma bike with a basket on the front.

So having a mountain bike was craziness! Everywhere I went, people would stare as I rode by. My students would utter ‘kakkoi!’ (cool) as I pedaled past their one-speed hineys every day. Even students who would act up in class and laugh derisively at my white, white skin would suddenly treat me with awe and respect when they saw me jam on my brakes and slide-skid into my bike spot. It just made life so much easier.

And let’s not ignore the speed factor. Having six gears made getting to work a briggity-breeze. I could lean into tight corners, weave between gaggles of pedestrians, and smoke the ever-loving crap out of every other one-speedin’ slug-jockey on the road. It was great.

I suppose I should have been concerned when the clacking started. The chain would rub against the guard and clack whenever I pedaled down on the right side. But instead of taking it to the bike shop right away, I just renamed my bike from “Quicksilver” to “Ol’ Clacky.” I mean, the bike had been through several ALTs before me, so I just figured the clacking was a sign of character. A sort of chime to the can-do attitude that brought it this far.

So when I was riding my bike three days ago, I was completely surprised to lose my footing. “SNAP!” said the gears. “Snap!” I said in return. And that was that. No more Ol’ Clacky.

My very kind and very helpful Board of Education (that’s not sarcasm, by the way. They really are helpful) was the owner of the mountain bike. So obviously, it was their responsibility to replace it.

When my supervisor asked me “Do you…want a mountain bike…again?” I responded bluntly.

“Yes,” I blunted, knowing full well I was supposed to pick up on the fact that it was too hard to do.

“Chotto…muzukashii…” my supervisor said, hoping I would change my answer. I didn’t. Normally, I would comply full force to make my supervisor happy. After all, he’s done soooooo much for me. But this, I couldn’t budge on. I’d gotten used to the celebrity that a mountain bike brings, and I wasn’t about to give that up. “Wednesday meeting, we will talk,” he said. “Now, you ride BOE’s bicycle.”

He went inside for a few minutes and came out with a rusted, gray, grandma bike. Just like everyone else’s. He handed me the keys. “Please,” he said with a smile. But I only heard “Please…embarrass yourself.”

Riding home on that bike that night changed my mind though. Riding a grandma bike wasn’t crappy. It was sucky. There’s a difference.

All of a sudden, my status had been lowered. Instead of leaning forward to pick up speed, I was forced to sit up straight and let the wind slow me down. Not to mention bugs. I definitely ate some bugs.

The handlebars were really short, not like the gloriously wide handlebars on Quickclacky. No longer could I maneuver through crowds. Instead, when a bustle of people was walking in front of me, my only option was to squeeze the brakes and wobble awkwardly as the bike with enormous wheels decided to slow down.

Did I mention the wheels were huge? Giant wheels with thin tires controlled by a weenie handlebar. Tell me the designer of that wasn’t high when that idea hit him. Steering any more than an inch one way or the other is like trying to steer a cat on speed.

But the worst part, of course, was that I was no longer cool. Instead of feeling like a super swift bike-themed superhero, I felt the overwhelming urge to give tied handkerchiefs full of biscuits to any kind sonnies I might happen to meet. I felt like smiling all the time and giggling heartily at things that weren’t intended to be funny. I felt like Parcheesi was a good game. I felt like a grandma!

The next few days, no one said anything on my ride to school. It’s not like they hated me, but they certainly didn’t think I was cool. My feet cranked on, knowing that the crappy bike was only temporary. The BOE had to buy me a new one. I just prayed it was an awesome, awesome mountain bike.

Several days rolled by as I endured the wobbly rust monster that was my grandma bike. Finally, I got a call from my supervisor. “Hello, Michael-san,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear. “Etto. Tonight, we have your new bicycle. Please come to BOE.” I was jazzed. I “hai hai hai-ed” and “nn nn nn-ed” may way all up and down that phone call.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the new bike. This was it. Ol’ Clacky was great, but he was old. A brand new mountain bike would be cooler than ever. Sleek silver. Multiple gears. Maybe even a laser point on the headlight. Maybe not, but I could tape one on. Either way, it would be sweet.

So the hour came. I cranked my rusty loan bike on its last ride under my crotch, before my crotch was transferred to a more deserving mode of transport. I parked the grandma bike and ran to my supervisor’s office. He greeted me in the Japanese way, which involves lots of smiling back and forth because neither of us can communicate with the other all that well.

He led me out the door and down the stairs. We came upon a crowd of parked bikes behind the BOE. Which one was mine? Then I saw it. The most beautiful mountain bike I’d ever seen. If I ever wanted anything under my crotch, this was it. My supervisor grabbed the handlebars of the mountain bike…and moved it out of the way.

There against the wall was a brand new grandma bike, complete with back basket for those picnics with your grandkids. He pulled it out and excitedly showed me the features.

“The back wheel,” he pushed down on it. “Shocks.” He clicked the dial on the handlebars. “Three gears. Switch, switch, switch,” he said as switch, switch, switched them. “Automatic, etto…denki…light. Automatic light.” His thumb moved to the left handlebar. RING RING! “And a new bell!”

“Oh boy, oh boy” said the Donald Duck that lives in my subconscious. I shot him with my subconscious gun. Sure, the bike was nice, but where was the cool factor? Nowhere. That’s where.

Not seeing any other option, I thanked my supervisor the bike and rode off. Sure, it was an uncool piece of steel and rubber, but it was one comfortable uncool piece of steel and rubber. And it had a speedometer. Not, that I would ever use it, but it was nice thought.

I stopped at a crosswalk, and my light went out as wheel-powered lights tend to do. But unlike most other wheel-powered lights, this one blinked green while you’re stopped. Finally, a bike with a light I can use as evidence for my case if someone hit me. Of course, being foreign, I’d still go to jail, but man I’d have a really good case.

However, all the cool features and steel frame and speedometer and new bell were not enough to convince me. I still wanted my old bike back. I parked Ol’ Newy and went into my apartment. After that, I don’t know. Maybe I watched TV?

The next morning, I saddled up (It’s funny because the Japanese word for bike seat is “saderu”. Ha ha ha! So literally, I saddled up! Ha ha ha ha! And I was on a saddle!! Ha ha ha! HA HA HA HA! HAAAA heh-heh HAAA-HA-HA! HAAAAAAAAA! … I’m done now.) and headed for school.

I passed a student and he didn’t say anything about my new bike. Of course my students have no lives and nothing better to do than notice me and everything new about my life, so why wouldn’t they say anything?

I guess I was just going to have to accept my uncoolness and live with it. I lived with it in America, so I’d just have to learn to live with it here. Suddenly, I heard a student call out.

“Oh, Maikeru. Kakkoi!” What this bike? Then I heard it again. “Kakkoi! Kakkoi!” That’s when I realized the most magical lesson of all. The power of coolness isn’t in your bike or your shoes or your candy necklace ironically worn for overplayed retro sentiment. The power of coolness is in your heart, or in my case, in the fact that I’m foreign.

So now I really love my bike. It goes pretty fast for a grandma bike and the brakes don’t squeal. The ride is smooth and comfortable and the basket is big enough for all my groceries. It maneuvers better than I thought it would and even looks kind of cool too. So things worked out.

And an update on Halloween. Turns out it wasn’t so bad. Not the same as at home, of course, but the JET Halloween party was pretty jumping. Katie and I went together as cats. We were supposed to be BattleCats, but we only had enough time to cut me up and throw blood on me, which was fine. As long as I’m covered in blood, I’m happy.

So off I go! I’m actually about to go teach my last lesson of the day. Then home, for a sweet, sweet nap. Oooooh man. I can feel that pillow already. Piece out.


















This is the new baby. Those yellow spots of light aren't refelctions of the flash. They're demon eyes tengu eyes embedded into the bike.























The back. Check out those shocks, suckas!

ALSO! One more thing. My friends started an amazing comedy project I fully support called "Carpenter 2016." Usually when your friends start some internet thing, it sucks. But those are your friends. My friends rock. So check out the videos. "Gun Control" is my favorite so far.