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created an inner tube filled with compressed air. In 1891, Édouard Michelin made the tube detachable. Bike
riding became smoother, faster, and more comfortable, and you could quickly fix a puncture with a replace-
ment tube.
By 1893, a top cyclist using good tires could go twenty-five miles per hour. Cycling enthusiasts soon
became legion. They began to lobby for better roads to ride on. At last, the horse had met its match—in a
machine that needed no food or water, could be housed in a compact space, and, with proper upkeep, might
never die.
IN the United States, automobiles eventually overtook the bicycle as the favored means of personal trans-
port. Now only 1 percent of all excursions Americans make are by bike, while 84 percent are by car. Even
in the Netherlands, the Western world's bicycling capital, 30 percent of all trips are by bike and 45 percent
are by car.
In the poorest parts of Asia, where cars were simply out of reach, bikes were a godsend. Bicycle use was
limited only by the fact that the bikes themselves remained a luxury item well into the twentieth century.
The elite used pedicabs (bicycle-powered carriages, pedaled by servants—which had replaced the rickshaw
setup in which the servant simply jogged along while pulling the carriage), but owning a basic bicycle re-
mained beyond the means of the average person. As late as 1978, less than 8 percent of Chinese could
afford a bike. Families scrimped and saved to buy a single bike they would share.
In a culture where owning a car or motorcycle was only for the rich, a bicycle meant freedom for
working-class people. Suppose, for instance, that you were living in one of these rural Vietnamese villages
we've been cycling through. Access to a bicycle would hugely expand the radius of places you could get
to, and back from, in a reasonable amount of time. Most humans walk at about three miles per hour, but
a cyclist can comfortably travel at three times that speed without too much exertion. On longer journeys,
this adds up dramatically: The current record for running across the United States is forty-six days, while
for a bicyclist it's eight days. Even over the course of a couple of hours, traveling by bike can make an
immense difference. It allows a far greater range of choices about where to buy things, where to sell things,
and where to make friends or meet a spouse. It literally broadens your horizons.
Our tour group has at this point shared the road with scores of Vietnamese cyclists, and I find their at-
titude toward biking radically different from ours. The Vietnamese tend to pedal at a comfortable, steady
pace, aiming to reach their destinations without soaking themselves in sweat. They wear their everyday
clothes to go biking in. Their bikes are old and cheap and look oft repaired. (I haven't seen any child-sized
bikes, either. Vietnamese kids learn to use adult-sized bikes by riding while standing up—often pedaling
in bare feet, with a smaller sibling or two perched on the handlebars.) Meanwhile, my tour group brethren
and I tend to pedal as fast as we can and sweat profusely. Some of us wear tight-fitting “athletic” clothes
in primary colors. We have gleaming new bikes with twenty-four-gear transmissions and flashy paint jobs.
Frankly, we look like a bunch of kitted-out buffoons.
By contrast, the Vietnamese emphasize the humble utility of bikes. During the American War—as it's
called here in Vietnam—bikes were a vital military resource. Soldiers could load them up with supplies
and ammunition to be ferried between battlefields. Even now, bikes often function as cargo carriers. On
this trip, I've had bikes pass by me stacked high with piles of scrap metal. I've cycled up behind a haystack
that appeared to float magically down the road—and then drawn alongside it to reveal the cyclist hiding
underneath. Terrifyingly, I've passed a woman with a large, rusty scythe lashed across her handlebars. It
slashed inches from my eye as we both coasted down a hill at 30 mph, trying to avoid loose gravel.
But my favorite was the woman with two live ducks in her handlebar basket. They quacked with every
turn of her pedals. It was like she was repeatedly squeezing a pair of loud, irritated bike horns.
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