Oh, Shining E-Bike on a Hill I Could Not Otherwise Climb

Are you yet another Boomer promise betrayed?

Cannon Dale and I, in happier days.

My New York City co-op board just outlawed e-bikes and to tell you the truth, though I once loved mine madly, I am not that broken up about it. It’s like when you’ve had a hot thing with a foreign national, who’s been staying with you longer than anticipated, and then gets word their visa’s expired:

Oh, no! You’ve got ten days before you have to get back to Florence! How awful. Just when I’ve gotten used to the way you never help out in the kitchen or make the bed because your mother did that. Putting your socks in the hamper would have been nice, too.

Oh, shining e-bike on a hill I could not otherwise climb, are you but another Boomer promise betrayed? You made biking possible again, but my battery-powered Cannondale weighs 48 pounds, so just getting it into the elevator is a chore and it’s so big and bulky it’s like sharing a bedroom with a Clydesdale.

That’s how it is in Manhattan, we can’t store our disposable income follies in the garage, creating excellent ground cover for the next layer of junk. (Scuba wet suit, anyone?) Our expensive toys share space in the living room and bedroom, from which they gaze accusingly:

Hey, slug. You got me so you could go up hills. Put on your too-tight bike shorts and let’s go up a hill already. It’s July, you’re back from Paris, your back is healed, the sky has turned from Canadian Forest Yellow to Retro Blue. Let’s do this thing!

Why did my Manhattan co-op outlaw e-bikes, the out of towners among you may be wondering?  Because E-bikes are powered with lithium-ion batteries and poorly made batteries and bikes have been exploding all over New York, causing melt-metal fires and killing people. This is making co-op boards nervous. You know the way people react in the mall when the guy with the M-15 starts shooting? It’s been like that.

The New York City Fire Department has not called for a ban on e-bikes. They have issued safety guidelines recommending cyclists buy only equipment which  carries the Underwriters Laboratories mark (UL), which shows that the bike has been safety tested.

I explained this, in a sweetly written note, to my building’s manager and co-op president the day the e-bike ban came down. They explained, in response, that E-bike owners had one month to get rid of their bikes. My bike, the Cannondale 650 U Adventure, with rack, lights, bell, and phone mount, cost $3200. Believe me, this little number is not going to Goodwill, an outpost of which is in my building, and so could not take it anyway.

But here I am, in a story that was meant to be about love and betrayal, talking about such coarse matters as money. ( $1400, cash, as it needs some brake, rotor, and gear adjustment and you better move pronto, as I leave town in a week.)

Where was I?  E-bike passion, a love like no other. Let me try to explain it for those among you who do not bike: You have been, for many years, in an unsatisfying relationship. No matter how much effort you put into it, you cannot get your partner to put the laundry in the dryer/ go to a cute little BnB in Vermont/get off his ass and do something other than watch the Nazi channel.

“Leave me alone, already,” he says. “I’m old.”

Then you meet a new fellow,  who we will call Cannon Dale, who promises to give you the world. Bike trips in hilly Vermont? Love ‘em! Your dimpled little Boomer knees hurt? C’mere and let me fix that. You’re renting a house in Rhinebeck? We’ll go over the Kingston-Rhinecliff  bridge to Woodstock. Isn’t Catskill Mountain Pizza the best? And biking up hilly Route 28, even with my brawny battery assist, those thighs of yours will be toned. Not that I don’t think you’re perfect now.  

(Actually, maybe we better drop the bike/sex thing here or it will get weird. Cannon and I are already sharing a bedroom.)

Let me put this in purely cycling terms: Getting an e-bike was a game-changer. It gave me the joy of biking without the breathlessness and struggle. I still got a work out; after biking 40 miles my muscles ached, but I was once again able to bike forty miles. I could get up steep hills. The e-bike’s tires were twice as wide as my old Terry road bike, giving me much better stability; the increased speed allowed me to maneuver better in traffic, which lessened the possibility that I would be killed. Maybe it just heightened the illusion that I would not be killed. Bikers are frequently hit by cars and trucks in Manhattan and not just because they are annoying.

Sure, like any couple sharing a cramped Manhattan apartment, Cannon Dale and I had challenges. You can’t hang an E-bike which weighs 50 pounds from a hook, unless it’s one designed for a cow carcass. Maneuvering the bike from the bedroom, past cream colored dining chairs and my favorite Chinese lamp, which wept when it saw us coming, was never easy. Oily skid marks dotted the walls.

Trying to get Cannon Dale out of town was particularly tough. E-bikes are marketed to Boomers, but fifty pounds is a lot for your average Boomer to toss around. You can’t get the bike on the subway, unless you find one of the few stations with an elevator; transporting it on Amtrak is iffy; you need the kindness of strangers to lift it up into a rental van. To get the bike upstate last summer, I had to hire a guy with a pick-up truck. Cost: $130 each way.

Transporting the bike with my car, which I was sure I’d be able to do after swapping my little Miata for a Mustang, was impossible. E-bikes are so heavy that they need a very strong bike rack, which requires the sort of hitch that hauls a boat. Then you have to lift your 50-pound bike rack on to your hitch and your 50-pound e-bike onto the rack. I was able to find a Thule rack with a ramp, but it was even bulkier and more unwieldy than the bike. It was not the sort of thing you want to keep in a one-bedroom apartment and somehow transport to your car. The only sensible solution I could come up with was to buy a country house with a garage.

E-bike technology, however, was moving fast, and there was another option: Folding e-bikes. I could trade in my big, fat Cannondale, which I had to move every time I wanted to adjust the air conditioning in the bedroom and was frankly starting to get on my nerves, for an e-bike which could fit into the trunk.

This would not be cheap: The adorable little GoCycle G4 which the owner of the specialty store believed could fit into a Mustang trunk was $3500. But it was ten pounds lighter than the Cannondale, weighing in at a mere 38 pounds. When I drove my car to the shop, to see if the bike would fit in the trunk, the salesman picked it up with one hand. He also looked about forty.

Ever try to lift a bulky, 38-pound hunk of metal, extend your arms so you don’t scratch your beautiful car, and gently place it into a trunk in which it’s a tight fit?  I did and my back went out for two weeks. I spent much of it in bed, gazing at Cannon Dale, who gazed right back, the insatiable beast.  

How about it, baby? Wanna put on those tight pants and go for a ride? Yeah, it’s tough wrestling me into the elevator; I know we almost killed a small dog last time, but you don’t like small dogs anyway. Those scratches on the Mitchell Gold console from wriggling me out the door? Nobody can even see them. Trust me.  

Cannondale Adventure Neo 4 e-Bike, size Small, steel grey. Make me an offer.