A Burst of Energy & Atmosphere: Byron Fabricio Estrella Huanca

I have always wanted a chrome Bonanza bike. Yet somehow, I had never come across one that matched my sense of design and aesthetics.

Then, during one of my regular online searches, the algorithm finally delivered.

There it was: minimal in its hardware, playful in its proportions, and exactly the kind of Bonanza bike I had been looking for. It wasn't cheap. But when something you've been searching for turns up at last, hesitation rarely enters the equation.

I ordered it immediately.

With a rare stretch of bright, sunny weather in the forecast, I had already pictured myself riding it by the weekend.

It took several days to arrive from Italy, and one look at the box made it clear this wasn't a grab-it-and-go situation. The bike had been delivered in parts, a flat-pack version of something that clearly preferred being seen whole.

Still, I was excited. There’s something about these bikes—all shine, all attitude, all swagger—that makes you want to get them on the street before the pieces are even put together.

The heavy cardboard finally gave way, revealing the bike in pieces. The frame lay on the floor beside the handlebars, pedals, and a surprisingly large collection of components for something that had looked so complete in the photographs.

Yet even disassembled, it had presence. The chrome frame caught the afternoon light and reflected it across the room, sending flashes onto the walls whenever I moved. For something not yet assembled, it was already making quite an impression.

A friend had offered to help put it together, but I wasn't entirely sure I could impose on him with a box full of chrome-plated ambition. So I started phoning around.

Germany may be a nation of cyclists, but it is also a nation of fully booked bike workshops. One after another, they sounded amused, but politely declined. Then I reached a small workshop in Tübingen.

The voice on the other end sounded friendly, if somewhat cautious. At first, there was little enthusiasm for squeezing another project into an already busy schedule. Then he asked what kind of bike it was.

A Bonanza bike.

There was a brief pause.

As it turned out, he had ridden one as a child back in Buenos Aires. The hesitation disappeared almost immediately. Suddenly, the conversation shifted from scheduling logistics to shared enthusiasm. He agreed to take a look and promised he could have it ready within a few days. That was all I needed to hear. There was still a chance of making the weekend forecast. I loaded the bike, my dog, and a healthy amount of optimism into the car and set off for Tübingen.

Finding the workshop proved slightly more challenging than expected. The navigation system had strong opinions, most of them unhelpful, so I called for directions. To his credit, the bike mechanic appeared to possess an almost supernatural awareness of my whereabouts.

"See the cyclist who just rode past you? Turn right there."

I looked around. The cyclist had indeed just passed me.

The workshop was still two streets away.

Slightly unnerved, I asked, "Can you actually see me?"

"I've sent a drone," he replied matter-of-factly. "It's guiding you in."

It was the first moment I laughed out loud that day.

I turned into the street and finally spotted the workshop.

There he was, standing outside waiting for me.

The voice from the phone now had a face. And before anything else could happen, he immediately crouched down to greet my dog. Chaya took to him at once, as if they had known each other far longer than a few seconds. From that moment on, they moved around each other with complete ease, as though the workshop visit had quietly become a joint appointment.

He greeted me with the same easygoing warmth that had carried me through the last few turns. To my surprise, I felt instantly at ease. After a morning of phone calls, dead ends, and logistical improvisation, arriving there felt like a small victory. From that moment on, he took over.

After a quick inspection of the various chrome-plated components spread across my car, he smiled and said that I could stop worrying. The bike was now his responsibility. He would take care of everything and I should simply call by Saturday to arrange collection.

It was such a simple statement, yet unexpectedly reassuring. Perhaps because it has become so rare. There was something refreshing about hearing someone say, in effect: "Leave it with me. I've got it."

So I did.

As I was leaving, I asked him about the neighbourhood.

Lustnau felt like one of those small, self-contained corners of Tübingen where everybody seems to know everybody else. I was curious how an exotic newcomer from South America, in the middle of setting up a business and a life from scratch, was settling in.

"Are the neighbours nice?" I asked, already suspecting the answer might be complicated.

"They are," he said. "Apart from one woman." Apparently, she had taken exception to his van's foreign number plate and suggested he take it back to where he came from. Sadly, this was more or less what I had expected. What I had not expected was his response.

With the calm expression of a man who had clearly enjoyed the exchange, he explained that he had told her he would be happy to comply. The only difficulty was that first he would need an export permit, followed by a considerable amount of paperwork. Then the van would have to be shipped across the Atlantic, taking the Transcontinental East Route , and eventually make its way across the entirety of Russia (Siberia) to the edge of the Chukotka Peninsula. "All in all," he told her, "it's quite a project."

He then suggested that, while they were discussing logistics, she might consider leaving his workshop and contacting the police, who would no doubt be delighted to assist her further.

I laughed. Not because the situation was funny. It wasn't. But because his response was. It had exactly the right combination of patience, absurdity, and refusal to be diminished by someone else's small-mindedness.

As I drove away, I found myself thinking less about the bike and more about the person I had just met. His response had impressed me. There had been no anger, no self-pity, no desire to argue. Just humour, perspective, and a quiet confidence that allowed him to rise above the situation entirely.

I drove home feeling strangely happy and unexpectedly touched. The bike was in good hands. That much I already knew. A few days later, I returned to collect the bike. There it stood, gleaming away.

Micargi Prince Bike. Saint Laurent Rive Droite. 13.7.2026

What was meant to be a quick pick-up turned into a longer visit. We chatted for a while, and I found myself lingering in the workshop, reluctant to rush off.

There was something undeniably pleasant about the place. Perhaps it was the enthusiasm with which he spoke about bicycles. Perhaps it was the quiet optimism of someone building a new life and a new business from the ground up. Whatever it was, the atmosphere was contagious.

When I eventually left, the bike loaded and ready for its maiden voyage, I drove home with the distinct feeling that the entire detour to Tübingen had been worthwhile.

Byron & Chaya @Rurak Werk Fahrradwerkstatt, Tübingen.