Sunday, 13 January 2002 | Green bike

A used bike, half the price of a new one, gears broken (but cheaply fixed), shiny green with stray scratches, with the character of an old car: a little worn, but an appealing shape, and a history. No warranty, and a suspect "restocking" fee. Sold in a pawn shop by a used-car salesman, slicked-back hair and thin moustache, a fat tie that doesn't quite reach his belt for his belly, whose young employee tried to put air in the tires via a screw in the brake pads.

A new bike, twice the price of a used one, in perfect health, shiny and black, with the character of a new pair of sneakers: bright and obvious and virgin. A generous warranty and a year of free tune-ups. Sold in a specialty shop by a man in a strange pair of glasses who readily responded to questions with thorough, straightforward answers, and who, in an odd moment, confessed that he sizes up his customers and is often wrong.

I bought the used bike. And last night—after returning a gift, eating in a restaurant with an incomprehensible menu, scanning my parents' wedding pictures, visiting with old friends, and taking pictures of a friend's band (bumping my way to the front and squatting above spilled beer and sneaking to different sides of the stage, curling around deafening speakers)—I sat on the floor and polished my new bike with an old sock. I think I did the right thing.