America (the name of the bike I took Round America with a Duck) is beyond repair. Brakes, cassette, stem. A mess. The cost to repair would be greater than the value of the bike (sentimental value aside).
In all honesty, I was surprised that bike even made it 10,000 miles with me via buses, trains and working on organic farms. It survived goathead thorns, 114-degree heat, a tornado, a hurriquake, a forest fire, and dips in two oceans. It climbed Colorado hills and beat the sh*t out of Kansas dirt roads. It served.
And now, it’s good for parts — for the new one I bought, exactly like it (pictured above — yes, I’ll paint it soon in my trademark style).
Why did I buy another, when the first one only lasted two and a half years, you may ask? Because I love it.
I love the convenience of folding it in supermarket carts and carrying it into restaurants instead of locking it to a handicapped sign because there are no bike racks.
I love how excited people get about it and how it opens up possibilities to them for including a bike in their apartment or the trunk of their car.
I love how it’s small and fits my frame better than bikes simply not made for 5’1” women.
I love how I can veer onto sidewalks without it overwhelming the space and pissing people off (and yes, it is legal to ride on the sidewalks where I live, so don’t come at me).
And I especially love that it’s going with me tomorrow on Amtrak to New York City, where I am doing some final research for my sequel to Round America with a Duck.
America, my bike, may not be the only America beyond repair. But, as always, bikes help. They always help.
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