This is Part One, for the setup for this story, see The Prologue. You’ll find it here.
When the day started, the new wheel only had about 75 km on it. What are the odds I’d have a problem? (Spoiler: It turns out about 1:1.)
Why?
Phoenix is a weird metropolitan area. At first blush, it’s laid out on a perfect grid, with straight line roads that should, in theory, wisk you directly from one place to another along logical paths… and if you’re in a car, it is, mostly.
On a bike; however, it’s a fucking nightmare.
Phoenix streets* fall into three categories: major roads, feeder roads, and residential streets.
The major roads crisscross the city in the aforementioned grid and are multi-lane death traps for bikes and pedestrians. I have yet to find one in Phoenix that feels safe to ride on, even ones with so-called bike lanes painted on them.
The feeders are smaller, one and sometimes two-lane roads running parallel to the major roads halfway between them. These can be very good for bikes, like Maryland Ave or a nightmare like Missouri Ave, just one mile distant. This depends on the design of the road and the characteristics of the traffic that flows along them.
The residential streets are the most pleasant to ride on; however, in Phoenix, they’ve been designed with various ways to dissuade through traffic. It makes them quieter but also funnels everyone, including bikes, back to the major or feeder roads. Getting from A to B is impractical on the residential streets.
And then there’s the geography and the legacy. There are mountains, canals, freeways, rivers (dry or otherwise), and rich motherfuckers’ homes plunked down in the middle of what should be a street. Only the major streets consistently get around these, and it’s very haphazard with the feeders.
This means that you must explore and learn the best bike routes to various parts of town and plan accordingly.
Last week, I learned that Oak St (a feeder between Thomas and McDowell roads) has a pedestrian bridge crossing Highway 51, which (on the map) makes it look like Oak can travel from 3rd St, over the freeway, over the Arizona Cross Cut Canal and to El Dorado Park at Miller Road in Scottsdale. That’s about 16 km in a straight line, and if you cross the park, Oak continues on the other side for another 4 km to the Indian Reservation at the outskirts of the conurbation.
Yesterday, I decided to test that. (Or we could, at this point, just say, “And then I got stupid.”)
I love riding bikes. I hate riding the same damned roads over and over again. I am sick to death of every route that leads away from my house, so I am always looking for somewhere new. I love that when on a bike, you actually see what’s around you. Places you’ve passed many times in cars are new because you’ve never really seen them before.
The Outbound Ride
I cycled down the Grand Canal, through Steele Indian School Park, and south on 3rd St until I intersected Oak. My goal: Travel as far east as possible on Oak, turn around and come home. On the way back, I planned a lunch stop at DiVito’s Pizza, a place I used to frequent when I worked in the area, but rarely get to anymore.
This isn’t the most logical route I could have taken. I could have stayed on the Grand Canal and intersected Oak at about 26th Street, having already passed under Highway 51 along the canal, and shaved a few kilometers off the trip. However, the objective wasn’t efficiency; it was all about the ride.
Despite not having taken the full Oak route before, I have biked over many stretches of it, so little was new till I got about 17 km from home, and then I hit new territory. Passing first through a cemetery, Oak then travels along behind the National Guard Base, which, for those who haven’t seen it, has some very picturesque geologic formations within. This was at 52nd St.
The road’s character changes a bit at this point, too. While still well-paved, the curb is gone, replaced by dirt siding that is easily wide enough for cars to pull onto and be entirely off the pavement. About 75 meters ahead of me, I saw a truck parked, with a family searching up and down the siding with a metal detector.
I thought, “I wonder what sort of metal they’re hoping to find here?” In that fucking instant, I did my own metal detecting, as a large cut-out section of rusty chain link fence pierced my rear tire – the one without the Tannus Armor** – and flattened my tire in about 10 seconds.
It was Thursday. My family and friends were all at work, or, if available, none had trucks. I received offers of help that were greatly appreciated, but the help I needed most — getting a non-functional 25-30 kilo eBike 17 km home without walking it — eluded me.
My first order of business was to take stock of my resources. I checked to see if there was a nearby bike shop that might repair the tire. The closest was 4 km away, in the wrong direction; the next closest was a bit further, but at least it was on the way home.
It was around noon, the sun was high in the sky, the temperature was just about to top 30º, and there were no trees or shade anywhere, but I had passed a park at 44th St. Hoping to find shade and tables there, I started walking my bike back the way I came. When I arrived, the park seemed about as far from human-friendly as it gets, presumably to discourage the homeless. Park tables that I used to sometimes eat lunch at were gone, and there seemed nowhere to get out of the sun and sit to take stock.
I sat on the baseball diamond dugout benches and pulled out my toolkit. I had the tire irons, patch kit, multitool, and pump necessary to repair the inner tube, but I had missed a piece of the reality of owning an eBike. While the front wheel has a quick-release hub, the motorized rear wheel has an old-fashioned bolted-on wheel, and I was not carrying a wrench.
Bike shop it was, then.
Adventures in Lunch
But first, lunch and some research. I was quite close to where I used to work. There was a sandwich shop just a block away. It used to be Blimpie’s Subs; now it’s Brooklyn Mike’s Subs, and I’ve never tried them. I carry very little (if any) cash when riding the bike, so when I reached their door, I was relieved to see the posted Apple Pay sign. I entered the small but empty shop and ordered a sandwich.
It’s a strange little place, with quite a few hand-written signs explaining that it was a locally owned store, which seemed quite important to them. While the woman prepared my sandwich, I saw the hand-written sign that says something to the effect of, “Because we’re a locally owned small business and rising prices, we don’t take any credit cards or debit cards, but we do take Apple Pay, Google Pay, Zelle, and Venmo.”
I thought, “That’s odd. Apple Pay is a credit or debit card.” My experience is that many small businesses make penny-wise but pound-foolish choices, and this just seemed like one of those small business owner quirks where they think they’re being clever.
She handed me the sandwich, and did not ask me to pay, so I asked, “do you want me to pay?”
“Afterwards, unless you really want to pay now.”
I was the only person in the store and was in no hurry to go anywhere, but I should have paid first.
The sub sandwich was delicious.
I planned to eat, use their toilet, rest, enjoy their air conditioning, and I’d do a little research on my phone about the Phoenix Metro bus system. Can I take an eBike on the bus? What are the weight and physical size limits?
There were some barriers. While it looked like my wheels would fit, it also looked like I’d have to remove my front fender. I could do that. I don’t find it very useful, and I’ve thought about it many times in the past. I had the tools to do it, but I’d have to carry the fender or throw it away.
There’s also a 50lb (23 kilos) weight limit, and my bike far exceeds that. I could take the battery out, take the lock off, remove the trunk bag, and get the bike under the weight limit, but I’d have to carry all that, plus the fender on the bus, and it felt like a desperate last-resort choice.
Bike shop it was, then.
Brooklyn Mike’s is a very small restaurant that seems to be run by a husband and wife couple. The man, who’d been out running an errand, returned, and he was one of those bigger-than-life proprietors who likes to talk to the customers. He got the opportunity, too, because 10 people walked into the shop moments after he returned.
They were from out of town, attending training at a nearby training facility, and I was now trapped. I hadn’t paid, and the couple were inundated with the new arrivals. None of them knew what they wanted, and the owner was more than happy to tell them everything about every sandwich, all the while learning about their life stories.
Charming, save for the fact that I was ready to leave, there wasn’t room to even get up from my table, and I hadn’t paid.
15 minutes later, I was finally free to pay. They seemed to have no cash register. The woman told me the amount, and I said, “OK, I’ll use Apple Pay.”
Instead of showing me the tap-to-pay terminal, she pulled out a hand-written note on a scrap of paper that said, “Apple Pay” and a phone number. “Here’s the phone number for Apple Pay.”
“What? Apple Pay doesn’t work by phone number.”
“Oh, do you have Zelle, then? Here’s the phone number for that,” she says, pulling out a different piece of paper with a phone number on it.
I wasn’t having my best day and was a bit frazzled, but my brain finally understood what was going on. They actually didn’t take credit cards, just cash transfers, such as Apple Cash. (To be pedantic, it is not Apple Pay.) Frankly, it all seemed pretty dodgy, but at that point, I didn’t care, so I fired up Apple Messages, sent a message to their phone number, and attached the cost of the sub.
Apple, bless their little hearts, screams at me, “You’re about to send money to someone not in your contacts! Are you sure you want to do this? You can never get this money back if you’re sending it to the wrong person!” I sent the money anyway. But then what was supposed to happen?
“OK, I sent it. Is that it? Are we done?”
“Hold on just a couple minutes,” she says.
The man goes into the back room, pokes around on (I think) his phone, then gives me a thumbs up, “OK, you’re paid, thanks!”
This was my weirdest restaurant experience in a long time, and it was just icing between the layers of the cake that was the day so far.
The Walk to the Bike Shop Interrupted
Back on foot, it was now over 30º on its way to a high of 35º. I trudged west along Oak St until I reached 36th St. Then I headed north, making my way toward Indian School Rd and the bike shop, which was now about 2.5 km away.
Walking a bike, especially a heavy one, is monotonous, and it’s easy to get distracted. Somewhere along this stretch, I managed to crash my leg into the bike pedal, drawing blood and giving me a pronounced limp for the rest of the walk.
I walked about a kilometer when I saw a vision rising from rippling heat waves in the air: A pickup truck with the words, “Rent me today for just $19 for 75 minutes.“
I heard the sound of heavenly angels singing.***
I had reached the Home Depot at Thomas Rd, and my salvation was in sight. I locked up my bike and made a beeline for the rental counter. “I’d like to rent a truck, please!”
“Can it be a larger van?”
“Smaller would be better.”
“Sorry, my pickup trucks are all broken.”
“Fine. I’ll take the van.” (Note: the van costs more.)
“OK, I’ll need your driver’s license.”
I hand it to him.
“Your credit card.”
I hand it to him.
“…and finally, your auto insurance card.”
Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck!
I carry my auto insurance cards in my cars, not on my person, and certainly not when I’m bike riding. This was going to be a showstopper; however, my Liberty Mutual policy information was in my Apple Wallet, and they were willing to accept it.
Now, I was on the 75-minute clock.
I stripped the bike of all heavy accessories, as I’d planned for the bus, and lifted the still not-insubstantial bike into the back of the cavernous van. I laid it on its side as there was no way I could see to secure it or pad it, and, hoping for the best, I headed home.
While I wasn’t speeding, I was moving with traffic, and I soon learned that the big, essentially empty van had a lot of bounce, as the first time I hit an irregularity in the pavement proved. I could hear the sound of my bike lifting into the air and smashing down onto the van’s floor. I slowed way the hell down to the consternation of the other drivers.
When I arrived home, with trepidation, I opened the back of the van, half expecting to find two or more pieces of bicycle strewn about the floor. Apart from the rearview mirror being smacked, it seemed reasonably intact. I won’t really know till I get the tire fixed.
The Bike is Home, But I’m Not Home Free Yet
There was no time for inspections. I needed to get the van back to Home Depot, which I did, with 2 minutes to spare.
It would not have been a problem if I’d had to pay for another time unit of rental, but I was so close that it would have been annoying if I’d gone over by a couple of minutes. I needed a “win” that day, and this was it.
As you can imagine, this whole caper was not meticulously planned out. When I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot, realized I was back where I was before: on foot, 10 km from home.
Without being saddled with the bike, I knew getting home was trivial; I could easily catch a bus in just a few minutes, but where’s the fun in that? I’d had a long, long day (I imagine you feel your day is going the same way if you’ve read this far), and I couldn’t be assed to put up with the bus.
I decided I was going home in a Jaguar.
But that story is for the Epilogue.
* Specifically Phoenix, but also including, in more or less regimented patterns, Glendale, Peoria, Scottsdale, Tempe, Mesa, Chandler, and Gilbert. (Did I miss any in the conurbation? If so, they suck, too. Take it as read.)
** See the Prologue.
*** It was actually the sound of airbrakes on a large truck.
