The big green-and-black e-bike I purchased was not from one of the fanciest brands, but from Rad, a direct-to-consumer company that’s known for its affordability. While its batteries are not customized in the manner that’s caused well-publicized fires in cheaper brands, the company does use cheaper parts all over the bike as a way of keeping costs down. My experience has not been flawless. The bike’s so insanely heavy, like 65 pounds, that it’s tough to get it to the shop whenever I have a flat or some other problem. My bike shop hates Rad, because, overwhelmed by customers, the company can take weeks to respond to requests. (Recently I only got my hands on some much-needed parts by tweeting at them.) The battery stopped working entirely, leading to a long, frustrating process to get it replaced. The cheap disc brakes struggle with the heavy bike and wear down with astonishing speed—I’ve learned how to tighten them myself when they get soft, but I’ve also had them completely replaced several times. Most frighteningly, the front wheel popped off entirely during a hard braking event shortly after I purchased the bike. (I’m pretty sure that was because the authorized assembly contractor didn’t know what he was doing.) For all these reasons, I wouldn’t recommend a Rad bike to
you, necessarily.
Yet even after all this hassle, I
still love my bike, and I’d do it all again. The ways the bike’s made my life better far exceed the annoyances it’s caused. Eventually this bike will die, and maybe I’ll invest in something nicer, easier to get fixed—maybe even some $5,000 riding machine. But honestly: I spent about $1,500 on this semi-crappy e-bike, and I’ve already gotten more than two years of transportation and joy out of it—and that’s not to mention the money I’ve saved on gas and parking. Plus I get to be holier-than-thou to almost everyone I know! Seems worth it to me.
Recently, after a Sunday morning soccer game at a field about 2 miles from my house, I threw my bag into the crate on the back of my e-bike. It was a beautiful morning, still a little crisp, but I was sweating like crazy from an hour and a half of chasing the guys who intercepted all my passes, so I didn’t mind riding home through some cool air. I turned on the bike and pedaled along the soccer field to the nearby bike trail and turned toward home.
Riding in the other direction was a guy on a racing bike, decked out in Lycra, reflective jersey, biking gloves—the whole shebang. As he approached, he eyed me sitting up straight on my e-bike, sweaty T-shirt, orange milk crate strapped to the rack. As he passed by on a curve, I heard him mutter, the way you do when you’re disgusted, half to yourself, half to the object of your disgust: “
Get a real bike.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
What did he say about me?! I got it together to yell at his receding, well-sculpted back, “You sound like a dick!” As I rode home, stewing, I thought of plenty of other things I wished I’d said: “Get a real SHIRT!” “Your calves are overmuscular!”
Mine changed my life. One could change yours, too.
slate.com