“I have to buy a what?”

“Not jest you, mon. De boss-mon, he say all of us. Everyone.”

“And what am I supposed to do with my car?”

“Perhaps you can find dit a good home – you know, at de bottom of de sea. Jamaica can always use anoder coral reef, mon. ‘Tis good for de fishys.”

Darius had an odd sense of humor, even for a native islander. Apparently, I was the last to hear. “De boss-mon,” as Darius liked to refer to the government, circulated a week-old memo I had missed until today. The mandate came as a surprise; not only to me, but to all the Americans living here. After all, we love our cars.

The ecosystem was degrading, “… according to the latest government surveys…,” and just about anything that used an internal combustion engine would be outlawed in a matter of two months. If it had an engine, it had to go, save sanctioned vehicles such as emergency and mass transit and the like; and even they were being replaced by electrics eventually.

Commercial aircraft and powerboats were excluded for obvious reasons. What would happen to the island economy if they cut off their own tourist trade? Tourists certainly weren’t going to swim here, and it’s hard to water ski behind a paddleboat.

“Darius, this is crap. How bad can it be? I mean the water is crystal clear – the bluest I’ve ever seen.”

I moved to the window.

“Look down there.” I pointed three flights down to the waterfall fifty feet from our building. “Even with all that churning water, you can still see the bottom.”

“Ah, yes, mon. But ‘tis the shore lines dey be worried about. Dere was a time I could see all de way to de bottom. When I was a child, me friends and me would dive and collect coins, glass, bottle caps dat people used to t’row from de boats– anyting shiny dat would attract de barracuda. Dey was easy to see from de surface. And we could go right to dem. Made a little money doin’ dat when I was small. But no more. Now, you can only see maybe fifteen feet down.”

I resigned myself to the fact I had little choice in the matter.

I took off work the next day and headed to downtown Kingston while I still had something to get me there in a reasonable amount time. It was a thirty-minute drive by car and I found myself wondering how long it would take by bike. I hadn’t owned one since I was a kid in the states, but occasionally I would see others riding them; sleek fifteen-speed racers, light-weight mountain bikes, or the less expensive, recreational peddlers.

Pulling into town, I spotted the first of many bicycle shops I would visit that day. I spent the next five hours striking out. Finally, I walked into an obscure little shop on the edge of town that still had a few of the gleaming beauties on the floor. My spirits rose.

“I’m sorry, mon,” the owner of my last chance, said, “but I’d be plum out of de bikes. De new law… de people – dey be buying up everyting in de city.”

“What about Port Antonio, Ocho Rios, or maybe Falmouth? Can you ship one in from one of those? I’ll take anything they’ve got.”

“It’d be de same everywhere, mon. De whole island be sold out all de way to Montego Bay.”

“What about the states?”

“I won’t be getting anoder shipment for several monts, and dey be already taken.”

“That’s just great. What the hell am I supposed to do? Walk?”

“I tell you what, mon. Maybe I have somting in de back. Come wit me.”

We walked through a small back door into a dreary, dimly lit hall; weaving our way around the skeletons of old bikes and piles of rims, handlebars and other assorted bike parts that have seen better days. Emerging into a small room lit only by rays of sun bleeding in through narrow windows at the top of the room, I saw even more junk. I watched as the proprietor sorted through stacks of unidentifiable objects until he finally pulled out an old bike from way in the back and wheeled it up to where I waited. I looked familiar.

“Dis bike is in good shape for its age, mon, so I’ll tell you what. You can have it for fifteen dollars, Jamaican.”

I took a closer look. It was and old, single-speed, thick-tire bike covered with the same dust, dirt and grime that now occupied the owner’s mustache. Wiping away the dirt from the front fork, I saw the name “Schwinn.”

I had one like this when I was a boy.

The handlebars were bent and it needed a new paint job, but it was otherwise in good shape. I lifted the back of the bike by the seat and cranked the peddles like I used to when I was a kid. I watched as the back wheel started to spin. It took a bit of force and the rusty chain creaked and groaned at being awakened so rudely. But it was nothing a fresh coating of grease wouldn’t fix.

“Tell you what,” I said to the shopkeep. “I’ll pay you another fifteen to clean her up and grease her up, and any additional costs to give her a fresh paint job, a new seat and some new tires. Oh, and handlebars, too.”

“You got a deal, mon. You can pick it tup next week.”

The week sailed by and as funny as it may sound, I was looking forward to getting my “new” bike. I kinda felt like a kid at Christmas time. I decided to check out some new biking clothes.

Browsing through the outdoor shops, the spandex outfits didn’t exactly flatter my pear shaped torso. I decided I’d hold off. A week rolled around and I drove to town to pick up my new transportation. Parking the car, I walked in the front door.

There it was. My new old Schwinn now had fire engine red paint with white pin stripping, a new seat and handlebars – and shiny chrome mirrors. It wasn’t exactly Peewee Herman, but on another level, I was glad for it. I circled the bike taking in the gleaming new chrome and the recently installed red and amber reflectors in the spokes.

Nostalgia reigned supreme.

I tested the operation of the peddles, as before, and was happy to find the rear wheel turned with a fraction of the effort needed with my first attempt. I paid the man for his excellent work and threw in an extra twenty to show my appreciation. We strapped it to the roof of my condemned Jetta, and I headed home.

After just one day on the bike, I remembered something from my youth that completely eluded me earlier. I kept catching the cuff of my jeans on the chain-guard.

“How could I have forgotten that?” I mused.

Snatching up a screwdriver, I removed the guard. That complete, off I went. I didn’t travel far before catching the cuff in the chain and screeching to an abrupt halt. It was all coming back to me now.

I remembered I had to roll up the cuff on my right leg to keep it from catching in the chain. I remember my mother – God rest her soul – scolding me for getting chain grease on my white socks. I smiled at the thought. I recalled that she would make me wear a black sock over the white one when I went to school, which I would remove and leave with my bike before going to class. At six years old, I didn’t care if I looked like a vagabond, but she did.

Two months passed. Every personal gas-buggy on the island was now auto non grata and carried sever financial penalties for the owner if caught running, and confiscation if caught moving. Some gas stations remained open – designated by the government as municipal fueling depots for the remaining sanctioned vehicles – but most of them closed. The owners were more than happy to sell; considering the cost of land on the island, they made a killing. As it turned out, I didn’t donate my old Jetta to King Neptune. Instead, I sold it to a dealer who was buying up gas burners at well under wholesale rates to sell throughout the remainder of the Greater Antilles. It more than covered my costs for the Schwinn.

Additionally, there was an unforeseen benefit for me riding that bike. The spandex apparel that seemed so outrageous when adorning my pear-shaped body before, now made me look quite the cyclist after shedding forty pounds. But something was still missing. Something I needed to complete my new image. Peddling back into town the following Saturday – which took three times as long – I stopped in the little shop where I bought the Schwinn.

“Greetings, mon! And how goes it wit de new bike?” the owner with the familiar smile clamored.

“Great, just great,” I returned.

“And it looks to be doin’ ya a world o’ good, mon. You be thinner now, yes?”

“Forty pounds, in fact.”

“Dat be wonderful. So, what can I do for you, today?”

“It’s been buggin’ me ever since I picked up the bike. Something’s missing.”

“Well, let me see. Maybe I can help you wid dat.”

He disappeared behind the counter, shuffled several dusty boxes around, and then reappeared again.

A smile lit my face.

“Here ya go, mon. What good tis a new bike, widout the handlebar streamers to go wid it?”



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