This is a true story. The characters’ names have been changed for their protection.
I never thought it could be so difficult to buy a used bicycle in London. I wanted to go about the process with moral integrity, avoiding the burgeoning black market for stolen bikes around Brick Lane. This was my problem.
My first day in London, I began what was to become a month-long, largely futile quest at Evans Cycles near Victoria station. “No, we don’t have any second hand cycles.” This was a phrase I became accustomed to. “You should try Recycle, at Elephant and Castle.” Exactly where it was, the man could not tell me. I spent days trying to find the place. No one I asked had been there, but everyone had heard of it. Worse yet, it seemed to be the only other place to get a used bike.
Finally, on yet another trip to Evans, I asked the new guy, Angus, just one more time where Recycle was. He called a friend and I heard one half of a disappointing conversation. “He thinks it’s been closed down,” Angus said, with flat affect.
Shut down! What kind of a store gets shut down? “It used to be under a bridge there. Get off the tube, make a right, then another. Go down straight for a bit. It might still be there, it’s worth a try.” No thanks, Angus.
I began a two-pronged approach. I would look on gumtree.com, while lowering my standards and “asking around”. All I got through the second track was people saying, “Go to Brick Lane, but you didn’t hear it from me,” complete with enough wink-wink, nudge-nudge to make me feel as if I was talking to Eric Idle.
Gumtree wasn’t moving either, until finally, I got a response from one Bertram, saying yes, he did have a bike. However, repeated attempts to reach him by phone and email were unsuccessful. I was just about to give up – I had already wasted one of my four months here, maybe it wasn’t worth it anymore – when Bertram wrote me back. “That bicycle is sold. I have another one for sale at £35, please ring soon.”
Something wasn’t right. “Another one for sale”? I finally did get in touch with him. I was told to meet him at Whitechapel tube stop, dangerously close to the notorious Brick Lane. And what kind of an honest bike owner wouldn’t want me visiting his flat?
Upon emerging at Whitechapel at the arranged time, I called Bertram. “Who is this? Are you Martin?” “No, Nick.” “You are not called Martin? Is this when we were supposed to meet? Oh, OK. Wait in front of the hospital [was this a threat?], I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
I waited under a tree as it rained. Eventually, Bertram pedalled by atop my future bike, stopping as we made eye contact. He asked one more time if I didn’t perhaps also go by Martin. He told me if I wanted a nicer one, he’d be getting a road bike soon, £55 just for me. I could sell mine for a small profit, he advised, and then come back to him. Maybe we could go into business together, I offered. He ignored that. He even tried to sell me a cheap lock along with it. The audacity.
As I cycled away from my new friend, I hoped this bike wouldn’t make its way back to that neighbourhood. At least not for another three months.
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