Happy cycles and Keralan trike tricks

After his talk the other night, I introduced myself to Greg Roberts. Learning that I was a mathematician and would be in town for a while, he told me to email him and that perhaps we could for a cup of tea at some point, or that if I saw his motorcycle outside Leopold's that I should stop in. I did email him, and mentioned that I'm more likely to be found at Kailash Parbat than Leopold's, and that if I was there, the only fixed gear bike in India would be sitting outside. (That may be an exaggeration, but I'm not so sure. According to a recent report, India's only velodrome, near Delhi is, "full of bumps and cracks, and more often visited by snakes and rats that humans.")

Roberts told me about Hamu-bhai, his friend and a bike shop owner in Colaba. I stopped by there Sunday on my way to lunch. Happy Cycles is on Third Pasta Lane. (There are at least three Pasta Lanes; Kailash Parbat is on First Pasta Lane, two blocks down.) The shop was a typical looking Indian bike shop, with an array of wheels hanging in the doorway, and an ordered clutter of tools and parts filling the small room. Work stands don't seem to exist here, at least not in south Bombay. I guess that there is too much a premium on space. Hamu-bhai's two mechanics were working on bikes in the street, occupying space that would otherwise become parking. One was adjusting one of the standard workman's bikes - a double top tubed black frame built to haul heavy loads and last like a tank. I rarely see them well maintained, but I also rarely see them broken. The other mechanic was changing the seat on a kid's BMX. The bike was so badly rusted that a considerable amount of hammer usage was being employed to extract the old seatpost. I rode up and introduced myself, telling Hamu-bhai that Gregory had told me about him, and that I was just stopping by to say hello. He heard Gregory's name and looked at my bike and smiled, pulled out a chair and asked his son to go and get us some tea.



Happy Cycles sells and repairs both bicycles and motorcycles. (Note that both motorbike and motorcycle are short for motorbicycle, which is no longer a word.) There were a few almost shiny new hero brand bicycles leaning against the building on the sidewalk next to the shop, and an array of motorcycles and scooters, many of them covered against the constant abuse that is being outside in Bombay. I parked my bike at the curb and took the offered chair. Hamu was the first Indian I met who knew what a fixed gear was, and he explained the lack of rear brake to his mechanics, who set aside their tools to take a look at the American bicycle. Sitting on the sidewalk and sipping tea, I answered all of Hamu's questions about my bike, and about what I was doing in India.



His curiosity about me satisfied, he pulled out a picture book of the sort that one can have made at a photo studio these days and showed me some of his finer creations. The artistic bicycle is not a much existing thing in India - the only human powered vehicles where much attention to aesthetics is ever paid are the tricycle rickshaws and cargo haulers (more on this later). But put a motor on some wheels and Indians go for detailing like the best of them. Hamu-bahi was into restoration and customization of classic Indian bikes, mostly Enfields. Classic is a loose term of course, because until recently the models were pretty much the same year to year. When you think about it, redesigning a working device and updating one's manufacturing plant is an expensive and somewhat wasteful task to do every year. Mostly for this reason, Indian bikes changed rather slowly compared to their counterparts in other parts of the world, and Enfield Bullets are still rolling off the assembly line looking a whole lot like they did in 1947. Now the UK even imports "brand new classic" motorcycles back from India. In any case, some of the bikes in the Happy Cycles stable are restored 50 year old gems. The pictures in the book depicted the conversion of a few of these aged finds into sleek machines. A significant enough chunk of my formative years were spent being enamored with the combination of steel, tires, and motor that is a muscle car that I stiil love an artistically done machine. (I used to have one of these, but of course, mine was black.) The motorbikes that Hamu-bhai showed me were in this category of vehicle as art. Two of the bikes from the picture book were parked outside the shop, Hamu-bhai's own in red, black and silver, and another apinted in black and green and heavy on the chrome. Gregory has restored this bike for Johnny Depp, who plays Shantaram in the movie of the book. My favorite bit of detailing was the pressed tin grips, kickstart and foot pegs, textured with chromed vines and flowers.



I took my leave of Hamu-bhai, and made a few notes in my mental picture of what sort of Indian bike I might be tempted to build. As I said, a decorative bicycle is pretty rare in India, but it could certainly be done. The cycle rickshaws in West Bengal were often nicely decked out in bright paint, though often maintenance was seriously deferred. A smaller number of the cargo trikes were similarly decorated, including the one that I took a ride on in Kerala. We were walking back to the guest house where we were staying in Allepuzha and I stopped to admire a shiny new trike. The owner was resting in the shade and wagged his head, smiling at my approach. He made a gesture that I didn't understand until his friend said I should get on and go for a ride. This proved tremendously amusing. An Indian bicycle is not a light thing to start with. To make a trike, the frame is often modified to include not just a double top tube but a doubled down tube as well. The rear triangle is removed, and in place of the chainstays, a wishbone of angle iron extends back and spans the axle. Rebar seat stays are welded in, and an angle iron frame is made for the wooden box that sits behind the rider. The wheels are special heavy duty things, often forgoing tensioned spokes for solid bars of rebar welded to hub and rim. The drivetrain consists of a standard Indian set of cottered steel cranks on a chainring (perhaps with "Atlas" or "Hero" stamped into the steel), about eight feet of chain, and a cog bolted to the middle of the axle. I estimate about at 2:1 ratio of chainwheel to cog.



My first attempt at getting started consisted of me lifting myself off the seat by pressing down on the pedal. It seemed that one of the wheels was in a bit of a divot, and lifting the contraption out of the hole took more force than I had in just mass. I pushed the trike forward a foot to get all three wheels ready and started slowly forward as I looked for another opening in the light afternoon traffic. I knew that quick and agile were not going to apply to the handling of this beast, so I waited for a good sized opening, slowly moving forward all the time. There was a car parked by the side of the road, and I swung wide to pass it, still waiting for the trickle of auto rickshaws and motorbikes to stall for long enough for me to make a u-turn. The way the vehicle was pointed moving forward would lead up and over a bridge crossing a canal, and into more traffic, so I needed to get it pointed the other way.

Suddenly, the trike stopped. I had misjudged how wide the rear axle was, and the right wheel had scraped along the bumper of the car. I jumped off and hoped I hadn't caused any damage to car or trike. The trike was fine, but there was a minor but noticeable scratch on the car, which was a fairly new model. Fortunately the car's owner, who was standing nearby, was laughing so hard that he had no ability to be upset. The trike's owner was having a blast watching the giant white guy try to pedal his trike, and insisted that I continue when I tried to give up in embarrassment. Trike backed up away from car, I found my opening and eased out into the street. With a lumbering turn, I was headed back the the other direction. I pedaled along, feeling a bit like an elephant, turned back and returned the trike to the very amused owner.