Bike Hunt Stories Show the Power of Bicycles - Story 5: Rebel

Today is Halloween, which sets my mind on an eerie bike hunt giveaway in Denver back in 2001. It was my fourth attempt at a Bike Hunt and my first true giveaway. The scene that unfolded that cold early morning still reminds me of ghosts and that gut-wrench possibility of goblins. That’s why I’ve chosen the story of Rebel, a battered blue mountain bike with dodgy brakes, for the next in this series of excerpts from my recently published memoir, Bike Hunt.

            The frigid pre-dawn air smacked me as I stepped through the sliding glass hotel entry rolling Rebel at my side. Had I not had this urgent errand, I would have turned right around and headed back to my cozy room to wait out the hour before the airport shuttle would arrive. One hour to scan the unfamiliar streets of downtown Denver for the proper recipient of Rebel—a worn, but sturdy mountain bike I’d bought at a pawn shop two days before. October 2001, an early winter. This was the wrap up of my fourth Bike Hunt, my first deliberate giveaway. Pony, in Philadelphia, had inspired the hunt. Fifi, in D.C., had broadened my expectations. And Purple Flash, in Wenatchee, had sweetened it all with her giveaway. I had to get this one right.

            I’d been riding Rebel to the various meetings scheduled around a transportation summit for western officials and advocates. He was a good bike, brakes a bit sketchy, but he rolled smooth, shifted well, and actually came to a stop if I squeezed both levers hard. His blue paint was scratched through in many spots though I could see he was once a looker. The pawn shop owner had lent me the few tools I needed to tighten his hubs, adjust his stem, and rethread the left pedal that had nearly fallen off. I named him Rebel because he had obviously faced great odds, but he had a certain vigor to him as soon as I pedaled off, as if he’d hated being cooped up in that pawn shop.

            I donned my helmet (a bad habit I had back then) and started pedaling, fighting the urge to pedal fast against the cold. Granules of snow pelted my face and sugarcoated the few people out, walking fast, pre-rush hour. Even though this was my first deliberate Bike Hunt giveaway, I knew Rebel’s new owner could be anyone I passed. I needed to take it slow, study each face, find the one with a bit of sadness, something missing in their life.

            I turned onto the 16^th Street Mall where I’d seen homeless people the night before laying out their blankets in doorways. The 16^th Street Mall was formerly a traffic-filled city street, but it no longer admitted cars, only pedestrians, cyclists, and a free tram that moseyed down the center. This allowed me to zig and zag from doorway to doorway across the street and back. But I kept striking out. All I could see were mounds of blankets, cardboard, and newspaper with a bit of sugarcoating for effect. Come to think of it, if I’d slept in a doorway the night before, I sure as heck wouldn’t be throwing back my blankets anytime soon either, at least not until the sun was well up. And I wasn’t about to go up and nudge any of the mounds. Picture that: Nudge, “Hiya, do you want a bicycle?” Let’s just say that wasn’t an option.

            I checked my watch—only half an hour before I had to be back at the hotel in time to grab my things and bolt to the shuttle. The farther I went, the longer it would take to walk back. I was nearing the end of the pedestrian mall area with only the endless expanse of the unfamiliar city stretching beyond. I shook off the thought of failure.

            Only three doorways with mounds remained before I’d have to venture out into the untamed streets. As my heart sank with the prospect of traveling too far to walk back in time for my shuttle, I glanced to my right down a side street at an eerie scene. In the beam of a streetlamp, a billow of ghostly steam whirled up against the descending snow. At first, all I saw was the steam, then a dark shape and then all seven of them, palms pushing down as they rocked back and forth.

            Standing on my pedals, squeezing hard on the brake levers, I nearly fell over as Rebel eased to a stop. It took all my will not to ride full speed right at them and tell them how excited I was to find them. I carefully eased my leg over the seat, composed myself, and walked as nonchalantly as I could toward the group. They were about half a block away, time enough for me to practice my line, and then I realized I had a big problem—what if they all wanted Rebel? I stopped. No, it was my last chance. Time was evaporating with each hesitation.

            With careful steps forward I studied the group. They were Native American, likely a family, four generations. There was a boy, maybe four or five, too small for Rebel. There was an old woman, grey streaks in her long black hair held back with a turquoise-inlaid clasp, and an old man with a black cowboy hat and deep grooves in his face. They wouldn’t want him, would they? A middle-aged man draped with a colorful blanket hardly looked up, unlikely to get involved. That left the three who looked to be in their teens and twenties, one girl, the others guys. Still a problem. I kept moving, much less excited than a few minutes before. I decided to let it play out and follow my instincts, bail if I needed to.

            I walked right toward them along the sidewalk, carefully watching each face through the dancing billows of steam, especially the three. The old man stepped back, shielding the old woman. The kid squeezed between their legs. The three stood their ground. I kept walking. About ten feet from them I stopped.

“Hi,” I said, and that’s all.

I waited. But I didn’t have to wait long. One of the young men—maybe seventeen, Broncos team jacket, shoulder-length black hair, inquisitive expression—stepped forward.

“Hi,” he said. “How’s it going?”

Problem solved. He would get Rebel. I delivered my story directly to him, not the others. I explained that I’d bought the bike to ride during a conference, but I needed to find him a home before I left that morning. He listened carefully with his eyes on Rebel.

“How much you want for it?”

“Nothing, except your promise to take good care of him. I named him Rebel.” I wasn’t sure if I should have said this, but when he looked up at me and smiled, I was glad I had.

“I’ll take good care of him, I promise,” he said as he reached out to touch the handlebar grip. I let go, so he had to grab it before the bike fell.

“He’s all yours.”

He swung his new bike to his side, then crouched down to look at the wheels and gears.

“How many gears?”

“Eighteen. The brakes are a bit worn, but if you use both at the same time it’s no problem. He rides real smooth.”

With that he stood and turned to the group, showing them his new ride. Though his back was to me, his elation was reflected in their faces. Then I remembered the lock, a new detail I’d added for this Bike Hunt. I’d brought an inexpensive coil lock to give away with the bike so the recipient wouldn’t have to worry about it getting stolen. The lock was dangling from the back of the seat, the key still in my pocket. I fished for it and brought it out.

“I almost forgot, you’ll need the key to the lock.”

He turned around, looked down at my outstretched hand and back up into my face as if I’d offered him another million dollars. He took the key, speechless.

That was it. Success. I was about to turn to leave when the old man, hidden behind the steam, abruptly spoke.

“Wait,” he said as he stepped through the group to face me, his hand strangely patting his hat. The young man with Rebel was still smiling so I knew this wasn’t a threat. “Can you give my grandson a hat too?”

It took me a minute to figure out what he was saying. A helmet, he wanted me to give his grandson a helmet.

“No,” I said, now also patting my helmeted head. “I only have this one. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he said and paused to admire the bike with his grandson. “Thanks for the bike. He needs it. He’s looking for a job this week and this will help him. We need the money as you can see.” Then he slipped back behind the steam.

I wished the young man good luck on his job hunt and in reply he held out his right fist. I’d never seen this before, but instinctively I made a fist and touched it to his before turning and walking away.

Rebel’s Bike Hunt story is one of many throughout the book. I’ve got my eye on several more to share on this blog. All will have the label “Bike Hunt” so you can easily find them.

Better yet, you can buy your own copy of Bike Hunt to read all of the stories and more. Find it through any online book vendor worldwide (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or order it through your local book store. We also have copies for sale at www.OneStreet.org.

Sue

Bike Hunt Stories Show the Power of Bicycles - Story 4: George

This week, I’ve been working with my Bosnian colleagues to develop a campaign planning workshop series in Bosnia and Herzegovina for the fall of 2018. So, for the next in this series of excerpts from my recently published memoir, Bike Hunt, I’d like to share a story from the Balkans.

George was a mistreated metallic-blue mountain bike I bought in Pula, Croatia before the annual general meeting of the European Cyclists’ Federation, which took place on the island of Veliki Brijun, a short ferry ride from Pula. George found his new home inland, in the city of Zagreb, thanks to my bike advocate friend Darinka. This was the first time I’d seen the Bike Hunt through someone else’s eyes. Enjoy.

On my last afternoon, Darinka joined me for George’s giveaway. As we pedaled downtown and into an open square of mingling crowds surrounded by ornate buildings, I warned Darinka that sometimes the giveaway can be quite difficult, though I had no idea what we were in for. After nearly two hours of Darinka giving the spiel in Croatian to countless people as I played her sidekick showcasing George, we both slumped onto the edge of a fountain to regroup. Everyone we had approached was either too busy or already had a bicycle. We had just decided to make another full circle of the square when we both spotted the same man.

“That’s him,” I said.

“That is definitely him,” she said as we walked toward him as casually as possible.

His sadness showed in his slow stride and slouched shoulders. I guessed he was in his forties, a worker with blue carpenter’s pants and short, dusty blond hair. He had sauntered out of the crowd on the edge of the square and was slowly making his way to the other side. Darinka caught his attention and began the spiel. He listened intently, looking slightly down at her. When she was done, he glanced over at me and George, then back to Darinka to ask careful questions. She started getting excited, explaining and pointing at George then pointing at him, showing him the bike would be all his. That’s when his face lit up and I swear he grew several inches as he turned to gaze at George. I pushed George into his hands and he pulled him close. Darinka went on talking as I fumbled for the key. I had to nudge him to pull his attention away from the bike and hand him the key, pointing to the lock. He took it as his face spread into joy and a tear formed in his eye. He sucked in some air and spoke to Darinka before throwing his leg over the bike and pedaling away. We both watched him disappear into the crowd and then Darinka sprang into a wild twirling dance around me.

“That was incredible!” she shouted, jumping and dancing in a circle so I had to keep turning to see her. “He told me his bike had been stolen weeks ago and he’d been walking for hours each day to and from work because he had no money for another bike. We just changed that man’s life!”

Watching the effect of the Bike Hunt giveaway through Darinka’s reaction, laughing and exclaiming along with her in the middle of that city of survivors, I could step back and see it, see why the Bike Hunt had become so essential to me.

George’s Bike Hunt story is one of many throughout the book. I’ve got my eye on several more to share on this blog. All will have the label “Bike Hunt” so you can easily find them.

Better yet, you can buy your own copy of Bike Hunt to read all of the stories and more. Find it through any online book vendor worldwide (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or order it through your local book store. We also have copies for sale at www.OneStreet.org.

Sue

Bike Hunt Stories Show the Power of Bicycles - Story 3: The Iron Maiden

For the next in this series of excerpts from my recently published memoir, Bike Hunt, I’ve chosen a bike hunt story that reminds me how grateful I am to be healthy and able-bodied. This last weekend was full of training, competing, and celebrating with my boxing and tennis friends. Because of stories like this bike hunt, I know that just one injury would sever these joys from my life. That thought is a gut punch to me.

So today I give you the story of The Iron Maiden who helped one man move freely again. She was a heavy steel, industrial blue, women’s-frame ten-speed bike from a thrift store in Denver, which I took to Boulder for a visit with a friend.

The next morning, I headed straight to the shelter. As I pedaled up, there were a dozen guys hanging out in a tight group. I stopped in the street next to them, got their attention, gave my spiel and settled back on The Iron Maiden’s seat to take in the reaction. Some laughed, others elbowed, teasing one guy that he needed a bike to lose some weight, another that he could use it to leave town. Watching the faces I was starting to wonder if I’d come up dry, when I heard a voice from below.

“I need a bike,” the voice said, this time sincere.

I looked down to find lying on the sidewalk a Grizzly Adams type, complete with beard and tussled blond hair, crutches at his side. I tuned out the jeers and moved closer to hear him.

“My bike got stolen about three months ago,” he continued, “and ever since, this sciatic nerve has plagued me. When I was riding that bike, I was fine, could even work. Now look at me. I’m a damned cripple.”

The jeers had stopped. They were listening too.

“Wow,” I said, “You definitely need a bike. But how do you know you can actually ride her?”

Rather than answer, he struggled to sit up and then get to his feet, wincing. One of the other guys helped him get his crutches. I got off The Iron Maiden and lined her up near the curb. Using his crutches, he lowered himself into the street, then handed them back to the guy who had helped. He took hold of her handlebar, slid his leg carefully through her low-curved frame and eased himself onto the saddle. The group hushed.

“Oh yeah,” he said, like a mountain man astride a wild horse, “I can ride her, no problem.”

“I named her The Iron Maiden,” I said. “You feel her weight?”

“That’s cool,” he said with a daring grin as he gazed at all sides of his new ride. “That’s the perfect name for her.”

At this, the group erupted into hoots and applause.

The Iron Maiden’s Bike Hunt story is one of many throughout the book. I’ve got my eye on several more to share on this blog. All will have the label “Bike Hunt” so you can easily find them.

Better yet, you can buy your own copy of Bike Hunt to read all of the stories and more. Find it through any online book vendor worldwide (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or order it through your local book store. We also have copies for sale at www.OneStreet.org.

Sue

Bike Hunt Stories Show the Power of Bicycles - Story 2: Jim Lucas

My recently published memoir, Bike Hunt, is based on my disturbing time as executive director of the Thunderhead Alliance back in the early 2000s. Interlaced throughout the book are my stories of hunting for then giving away used bicycles when I travel. Those bike hunts kept me from losing myself as I fell into that abusive situation, so I recall them with fine detail. Readers seem to enjoy them. Plus, each bike hunt story shows the significant impact a bicycle can have on someone who is struggling. So, I have decided to offer a series of my favorite bike hunts in this blog. Today is Story 2: Jim Lucas.

I’ve chosen the Jim Lucas bike hunt story because it reminds me of the bike hunt I just enjoyed. I spent the last four days in Oakland, California for a community land trust conference. Upon arrival in Oakland, I asked a few people at the subway exit where I could find a used bike. A three-block walk later, I found myself settled into the backroom repair area of a sweet bike shop where the owner takes pride in helping his neighbors. Andre had agreed to sell me a traumatized black Schwinn commuter bike whose bottom bracket had been ridden into dust. After more than an hour of wrenching and replacing parts, black grease up to my elbows, I rolled my new ride, dubbed Otis, out the door to pedal through the graffitied neighbor to my Airbnb room.

But the surgical beginning of Otis’ bike hunt was not what reminded me of Jim Lucas. Instead, like Jim Lucas’ giveaway, it was my chance to connect with a heartbroken woman in downtown Oakland and give her a bike.

Yesterday morning, I’d only managed to spare fifteen minutes to find Otis a home before the conference session began. I pedaled him slowly away from the conference venue forcing myself not to rush, but to look at faces instead. After a few blocks, I glimpsed the hunched form of a thirty-something black woman sitting on a fire hydrant. I had to interrupt her deep conversation with herself. I think I was the first person to talk with her for a while, because a tear formed in one of her eyes as she folded me into her conversation and I jumped along with her scattered threads.

I learned about her mother’s struggles and that she is now in a home or institution that is difficult to reach. She told me about a brutal beating that seemed to be her explanation for her ramblings—messed up her mind.

When she realized I was giving her the bike, the tears flowed. She’d had once had a red Schwinn, but it was stolen. I showed her the lock and key dangling from the seat so she wouldn’t have to worry about that. We shook hands and I dashed back to the conference, only slightly late for my session, though it took me some time to refocus.

So today my excerpt from Bike Hunt is the bike hunt giveaway story in Chicago of Jim Lucas, a beautifully preserved 1950s black Raleigh three-speed:

I pedaled downtown the next day to give Jim Lucas away. As I turned onto Michigan Avenue, its wide expanse between skyscrapers and landscaped median forced me to choose a side. I chose the southbound side and slowed to a crawl to study the passing faces. Most of the pedestrians were in suits or fancy dresses rushing to important places. Behind this flow of people I spotted a stationary man. He was sitting on a rolled-up blanket, his smudged, bearded face watching the people pass as if he was at a tennis match. No one stopped to drop coins into his hat. His sign read simply, “Please.” I liked that. No specifics, just a polite please. I used to add that word to the end of my hitchhiking signs. Still, I wanted to make sure he’d take care of Jim Lucas before committing. After rolling up to him, I could tell he didn’t see me because he was so focused on the rush in front of him. I’d come from the side and was no longer moving.

“Hi,” I said.

“Huh?” he said. “Geez, where did you come from?”

“Sorry to surprise you,” I said, moving my eyes back to the swirling crowd for a moment to let him get used to me. “So,” I began again, “what’s your story?”

He sat up a bit, obviously pleased that I’d asked and scooched a bit closer to me as I leaned down across the handlebar to listen. He started by asking my name. His was A. J. Then he told me of thieves and beatings, the fear he felt each night when he tried to sleep, the vulnerability he was growing so tired of. And then, as if to balance this fear, he told me how much he still loved his girlfriend who had left him nearly a year before to fend for himself on the street. When I asked him if a bike would help, he frowned, saying he couldn’t buy a bike. But when I explained further, his blue eyes brightened.

“Would you really give me that beautiful bike?” he asked.

“I would be honored to give you this beautiful bike,” I said.

He stood up slowly, his eyes on Jim Lucas. I pushed him into A. J.’s hands and he swung his leg over to straddle the frame. After one quick glance at me he jumped onto the saddle and started riding in a circle, disrupting the flow of people who had to step sideways and then collide with others. A. J. no longer cared about them as he laughed and chattered about all the places he could go now, riding many more circles on the sidewalk. He coasted to a stop in front of me to give me a hug. As I walked away, he chanted my name.

Jim Lucas’ Bike Hunt story is one of many throughout the book. I’ve got my eye on several more to share on this blog. All will have the label “Bike Hunt” so you can easily find them.

Better yet, you can buy your own copy of Bike Hunt to read all of the stories and more. Find it through any online book vendor worldwide (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or order it through your local book store. We also have copies for sale at www.OneStreet.org.

Sue

Bike Hunt Stories Show the Power of Bicycles - Story 1: Peaches

Since publishing my memoir, Bike Hunt, at the end of August, I’ve had many deep discussions with readers via email, phone, and Facebook as well as in person. The Interbike trade show a few weeks ago drew readers to the One Street booth to share their thoughts inspired by the book.

The top theme of these discussions has been how and why humans tend to act so badly in groups. This plays out in many nonprofits, and certainly played out at the Thunderhead Alliance while I was the director there in the early 2000s – the timeframe of the book.

Running a close second for readers’ are my detailed accounts of what I call Bike Hunts – my tales of searching for and then giving away used bikes whenever I travel. During my disturbing time at Thunderhead, my Bike Hunts were my only connections back to the world I’d known before taking the job. They were so important to me, I recall fine details of these precious moments simply helping strangers with bicycles.

Each Bike Hunt story shows the significant impact a bicycle can have on someone who is struggling, though it’s simply me giving a bicycle to another person. No anti-poverty program. No ribbon cutting. No media. Just two human beings and a bicycle.

So I thought I’d share some of my favorite Bike Hunt stories from Bike Hunt in this blog, starting with a bright pink girl’s BMX bike I found at a Goodwill during a conference in Miami and named Peaches:

            On the last evening there, after Gayle and I packed up the booth and dealt with the shipping service, I wheeled Peaches out the front door to find her new home. It was already dark and I worried that anyone I approached might be even more suspicious of me than usual when trying to give away a bike. I pedaled Peaches carefully along the busy, multi-lane road, the typical road type I’d seen all over the area. No wonder there were so few people riding bicycles there. Cars swept past my left shoulder as I focused on keeping the handlebar straight, scanning the sidewalks for someone who would adore Peaches. The few people out were rushing somewhere else, no time for a bright pink bike. I rode on into the night, heading west away from the city and into hardened neighborhoods where iron bars were favored over business signs.

            Ahead, three small figures were walking much slower than the other people I’d seen. They were speaking softly as they walked, looking at each other rather than the sidewalk. One was likely the mother, barely five feet tall. The boy was only a bit smaller than she was, perhaps ten years old. The smallest was a young girl and she had on a pink coat. I swear Peaches sped up as soon as I spotted them, but I pedaled back to slow down. I didn’t want to startle them so I eased onto the sidewalk at the next driveway and got off to walk toward them.

            “Excuse me,” I said, and watched with dismay as they all jumped back in fright. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

            The boy whispered in Spanish to his sister and mother and they both nodded at him. “It’s okay,” he said, and stepped in front to lead them past me.

            “Just a minute,” I said, “can I ask you something?”

            “Yes, of course,” he said as he stopped to listen.

            I gave him my giveaway spiel and suggested maybe his sister would like the bike. When I had finished, he nodded to show he understood, then turned to the other two to translate, taking his role as translator and negotiator very seriously. As he retold my story in Spanish, both of their faces brightened, and when he came to the end, the girl jumped up and down, still staring up into her brother’s face as if to make sure he’d really said it. The mother began speaking very rapidly as the boy encouraged her with “si, si.”

            He turned back to me. “My sister would be very happy to accept the bicycle,” he said in a business-like tone, “and my mother would like to thank you very much. You see, yesterday was my sister’s eighth birthday and she had hoped for a bicycle.”

            The Bike Hunt had succeeded yet again.

Peaches’ Bike Hunt story is one of many throughout the book. I’ve got my eye on several more to share on this blog. All will have the label “Bike Hunt” so you can easily find them.

Better yet, you can buy your own copy of Bike Hunt to read all of the stories and more. Find it through any online book vendor worldwide (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or order it through your local book store. We also have copies for sale at www.OneStreet.org.

Sue