The New York Times has a great article on the sidewalk bike repair shops that are starting to appear in New York, probably as a result of more cyclists and a growing market.

I’ll never forget sitting in a cafe in Mexico City and watching a delivery boy with a flat tire make a call on a pay phone. About ten minutes later a fellow in a blue apron showed up in a cargo bike loaded down with tools (including oxy-acetylene!), patched the tire, and the delivery boy was back on the road.

–Erik Ryberg

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Pedaling through the light, I swing another right and another left before finding Main St.     Going south on Main St. , cars whip past my small bikes metal and flesh frame, inching to the left as to avoid a human-car collision. I lock up my blue bike, unlock my door, stroll to the green-colored living room and turn on a movie, feeling the accomplishment sink with my body into the chair as the muscles in my legs groan. Not all of the streetlights reach over the green and yellow fading trees, so in order to stay within sight of passing cars I try to stay in the orange light, occasionally riding upon the sidewalk when the road becomes too narrow.     Though I've become more brave making left turns in town, a highway is more crowded and being the novice biker I am, I don't want to risk a collision with a driver that doesn't see me. Because of this, I take the cowardly way out and wait for... Bumps in the road induce standing up from the hard, black seat — my butt is cushioned, but not after riding a bike every day for a few weeks.     Wind whistles through my weather-chilled ears as the two black tires of my bike rush over pebbled asphalt. I then regain the road, biking to my cozy apartment.

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