Two bus stops away from the Hopkins Nanjing campus, across from a wonderful exhibit on Ming Dynasty treasures found in Nanjing, was the infamous second hand bike alley.
After one month back in Wisconsin teaching myself to ride a bike with the help of a Youtube video made by an NYU student, I was determined to buy a bike and become a part of the Nanjing commuting throng.
I went with two classmates to this alley known for pedalling second hand bikes; unfortunately, they were most likely stolen. I sat looking for a bike that most resembled the Dutch commuter bikes or “fiets” of my childhood. And there she sat, quite unassumingly, the Pretty Sheep 4. She had a nice coat of Purple paint and was ready to attack the streets of Nanjing. Who knows what happened to the Pretty Sheep(s) 1, 2, and 3, or if they even existed at all, but the 4th generation was mine for the taking and she would serve as my trusty steed for my two years in Nanjing.
My first biking adventure was a frightful, fitful, and ambling jaunt through the central streets of Xinjiekou and the clubbing district. Experienced, unafraid bikers who had ridden unsecured as toddlers on the back of their mom or dad’s bike, whizzed past me. Somehow, almost being hit by a car did not hurt as much as getting cursed by an older man. I took a break at the park in front of Carrefour and was questioning my desire to become a Nanjing biker. Especially disconcerting were the looks I was getting for my helmet. “Where is she going?” they must have thought, and not in a slow panoramic hair blowing in the wind “who’s that girl” kind of way. More like, “What’s her problem, feh, lao wai”.
After pondering my confidence issues and boiling it down to, “I want to get off campus and I don’t have a car, nor want to die driving one”, I got back on my bike and proudly rode back to campus where I could protect my new favourite companion.
Before I even knew that my bike had already been christened the Pretty Sheep 4, I had already decided on a name that more accurately fit my weird sense of humour. The “Purple Nurple” was born the day I rode her home from her original place of birth. She was Purple, and the look on people’s faces when I told them her name was too priceless, thus the name stuck. The Purple Nurple was instrumental in getting me to and from work, to my yoga classes, to helping me make relaxing rings around town, and to meeting people for coconut mango dessert bowls and kebabs (串儿) late into the night.
Surprisingly, within two very eventful years in Nanjing, the Purple Nurple was never stolen. I got cocky and even left her outside unlocked. When I found her intact without anyone stealing her, I started to wonder if there was something desperately wrong with her. It is almost sad when one starts wondering what is wrong with one’s belongings if no one wants to steal them.
In two years, the only thing taken from me was a really nice night light that I mistakenly left on one of Purple’s handles outside my yoga class. The lack of interest in my bike by thieves made me love the Purple Nurple even more. I rode her around recklessly like a local with nothing to lose. During Golden Week, when I was invited to bike to Yangzhou from Nanjing, I had no doubt that Purple would survive the trip. Looking back, the Nurple in reality had about as much stamina as an on-sale Walmart bike. However, she rode along highways, over dirt roads, and rested on a ferry like a champ. Bikers along the way either thought that I had an amazing bike or an amazing pair of legs. I would like to think both were responsible for the successful trip.
Despite having some very sore legs, the Purple Nurple helped me to see the sites of a China not offered to most. From crawling along major highways to weaving through towns and busy streets, the Purple Nurple held up over two years with the speed and strength of a 1,000 dollar bike. She is featured so many times in my pictures and memories that she almost became part of the family.
“How’s the Nurple?” my mom would unironically ask over Skype. “She’s doing well, she gets me everywhere and anywhere”, my excitement brimming over at a rate that is usually reserved for a young boy’s old junker of a first car.
Over two years, my dependency on cars turned into a complete lack of understanding of why I would need a car in the first place. Between buses, trains, the subway, the Purple Nurple and the occasional shared or emergency cab ride, why would I want to sit in traffic, when I could lurk from the comfort of the Purple Nurple? I loved my Nurple so much that when it was time for me to leave China, selling her became the last and most painful thing I had to do. I took one last picture and sent Purple on her way with one of my friends who was now the one making a home for herself in Nanjing.
Three years after returning to the US, I went from my ideal life as a cyclist through urban China to being car dependent in Southern California. I would inwardly rage over gas prices and traffic jams, waiting for the weekends when I could set aside some time to cruise on my flea market purchase named Blueberry.
Biking through Southern California does not have the same power as racing through the poorly regulated streets of Nanjing. Despite the constant dangers of my reckless bicycling combined with a public that is fairly new to car culture, I felt safer amongst the crazed various forms of transportation vying for the right of way, than amid the wide lanes of Southern California’s suburbs. Instead of being traditional transportation for the masses, biking seemed to be more of a labour for those who could not afford a car, an almost unavoidable necessity in highway consumed South California. I thought of the Purple Nurple and what seemed like easier days, save for the ones consumed with homesickness, term papers or food poisoning.
The Purple Nurple became a symbol for times where I was not trapped by highways, petrol prices or post academic responsibilities. The Blueberry died tragically after an 8 hour trek along any bike path I could find, with both my legs and blueberry’s tires destroyed, it was time to find a new bike. I bought a Purple Nurple lookalike from Amazon that despite its newness, shine and complete lack of history, failed to be comfortable or endearing in any sense. It did not help that I still lacked a bike friendly community and that at this point I was living on the top of a massive hill that blocked any effort I put into mastering the uphill climb.
Soon after I had treated myself to the Purple Nurple’s new cousin, a major life change came my way in the form of a new position in the Bay area (Berkeley to be exact). The transition was a difficult one to be sure, but almost like a sign from the heavens, my American Purple Nurple was taken the day before I moved. Since moving to the Bay area, I now have a completely new bicycle called Black Pete (a reference to a somewhat controversial Dutch fictional character). I get to fulfill my dream and previous love of bicycle commuting and my ultimate dream of being able to commute to work without a car. The Black Pete lets me glide along the Ohlone greenway, a bike/walking path lined with art and a major enabler of daydreaming (just be careful of the crossings). The Black Pete is a wonderful reminder of my past and a great part of my present; whizzing through Nanjing on a possibly stolen steed of amazing strength turning into an easy glide controlled by very civilised crossings and extremely uncaring high school students, begrudgingly heading to school. Even in the grey, pouring rain, the freedom of a bike on a quiet path made me so happy, it felt like the same type of freedom I enjoyed in Nanjing while giving drivers heart attacks and blatantly ignoring crossing warnings.
Thank you Purple Nurple, for giving me a sense of freedom that I have brought with me back to the US after a wonderful and terrifying two years in Nanjing.
This article was first published in The Nanjinger Magazine, November 2016 issue. If you would like to read the whole magazine, please follow this link.
