In November 2007, just before leaving Austin, I sold my car—a Mazda with about 175,000 miles on the odometer. Since then, I have had no worries about maintenance or insurance, filling up with gasoline or other such mundane matters. I do, however, retain my Texas driver’s license which is necessary for semi-annual visits to what used to be home.
For 7 1/2 years now, I have relied on subways, taxis and buses for transportation. But there is one other means of getting around, and that is my bicycle. In 2012, I believe, I answered an ad on Craigslist about a bicycle for sale. A young man from Oklahoma was about to leave Korea, and he needed to get rid of his black-and-yellow Samchuly Lespo. I met him near Yongsan Station and took it out for a 5-minute spin. Pleased, I handed him 200,000 won and the deal was done.
Only later did I learn about the proud history of Samchuly. It is the oldest bicycle company in Korea, having started business in 1944. These days, its factories churn out more than 1 million bikes per year, with exports to the USA, Japan and Europe.
Mine, with fat knobby tires, is technically a mountain bike but I have never had it in any kind of rural or alpine setting. No, this is for riding in Gangnam—crowded, congested with a few big streets and a lot of little, narrow ones. A pair of black leather gloves cover my hands when I go out. I have a helmet and should wear it always, but I confess I seldom do.
I cruise around my neighborhood, if it may be called that. Sometimes I go south to Yangjae Stream, a greenway stretching five kilometers from Gwanak Mountain to Tancheon, a tributary of the Han River. Pedaling my Samchuly, I have been able to see far more of this area than I would have otherwise. I take in the schools, the mom-and-pop convenience stores, the high-rise complexes and the lively restaurant/bar scene, much of which goes on 24 hours a day.
You have to be on your toes, so to speak, when riding a bicycle here. Space is at a premium, and literally none of the back streets have sidewalks. Cars, scooters, bikes, pedestrians, pojangmachas (small, portable tented restaurants) and refuse pickers—there are more than 100,000 of them in Korea, nearly all elderly and poor—jostle on the streets of Gangnam. Austin was a bicycle-friendly city; Seoul is not.
I lack the space, tools, knowledge and desire to maintain my bicycle. For that reason, I rely on Mr. Yeom at the Noori Bike Shop on Gangnam Street. His one-man store is a sort of bicycle headquarters in that area. I have been there numerous times, and I can tell you he offers fine service at a low price. I periodically ask him to give my bike a tune-up. He checks the gears, brakes, cables, chain, sprockets, axles and so forth. While he is doing so, I wander over to admire some of the bicycles he has on sale. These, I admit, are more beautiful than mine with the most modern design and components. Some are rather pricey, but one is available for 500,000 won. About nine months ago, I gave serious thought to buying it. I could have, and I might have. Mr. Yeom and I had an interesting conversation about that possibility. My Samchuly is at least 10 years old, and we both know it cannot compare with the ones on display at the Noori Bike Shop.
“Yours is a good bike but a cheap bike,” he said. “And it is less likely to be stolen than those,” pointing to a row of sleek machines.
Mr. Yeom’s back-handed compliment notwithstanding, I have genuine affection for my Samchuly bicycle. It serves me well and if not the coolest and sexiest in Seoul, it's actually quite solid. I enjoy riding it, and I depend on it. Biking is my secondary form of exercise—running, of course, being number one.
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