BEIJING - When it came time to choose bikes, I knew The Catac had to go. Its rusty, fake German frame couldn't compare to the Eisenhower-era flourishes of The Gazelle.
The Catac wasn't returned in perfect shape. Its new owner treated it poorly. The chain was loose, the tires deflated and the handlebars even more bent than when I lost it. With so many problems, I decided to take it back to the place where I bought it: Bike Doctor Hu's tiny repair shack on the west side of campus.
The loose chain meant I had to walk the Catac over to Dr. Hu's, turning a five minute bike ride into a 20 minute walk. I arrived to find Dr. Hu busy as ever. After four meetings, I've decided that Hu must be in his early 40s. His face has deep creases of a man much older, but he remains quite spry, getting on the ground to examine a bike with ease.
I went up to Hu with the bike. He got the idea, Hu's a smart man. "You want to sell the bike?" he said.
I nodded. "How much?"
Hu listed all the problems with the bike, mentioning the handlebars, tires, chain and even catching a couple others that I hadn't noticed, like bent wires and a new problem with my basket.
"But you just sold me this bike last week," I protested.
Hu offered me 50 for the bike. I bought it for 75, giving Hu an instant profit of 25. I countered with 60.
Hu didn't seem interested. "At 60 I don't want it," he said, and pushed 50 RMB into my hand.
Once again I was outsmarted by Hu. He sold me both bikes at slightly inflated rates, despite my frantic bargaining. Now he was making a profit off someone stealing from me. But I was unlikely to get any price at another place, where they wouldn't want my defective Catac.
I took Hu's offer, but left him with him with final joke. I took out the orange polyster seat cover the thief put on The Catac.
"I don't want that," Hu said.
But Hu would take it. "No, no. Take it. It's a gift for you."
And I left before he could give back.
