29 Years Later, I Got Back on a Bike — and Found a New Addis Ababa
Back in the early 1980s, one of our childhood rituals was visiting Gabriel Meda — a wide, makeshift football field, cycling track, and driving practice area near Bisrate Gabriel Church. There was a man named Chala who owned more than a dozen bicycles that he rented out to children. The fee was unbelievably cheap — about twenty-five cents — for a ride covering the entire field.
It took roughly twenty minutes to make one full round, much of it out of Chala’s line of sight. Several crossings led to nearby neighborhoods, but in those innocent times, even the most mischievous boys never thought of escaping with the bikes. Chala never seemed worried either; he was usually preoccupied with his motorbike or, later, his minibus taxi, which he drove from Bisrate Gabriel and Sar Bet through the Vatican Embassy area to Mexico Square.
How distant those carefree days seem now — and how nostalgic it feels to recall that what was once Gabriel Meda has become a concrete jungle. The smell of daisies, the gusting wind as our young feet pedaled Chala’s old but reliable bikes, and the exhilaration of roaming freely in the open all feel like a lost utopia.
I remember Chala’s gray hair, his piercing blue eyes, and his fatherly kindness tempered by firm authority — almost like a surrogate father. The field was alive with the sounds of children and youth at play. A football might roll into a cyclist’s path. Driving lessons in the legendary Fiat 500 — the “Baby Fiat” — and Volkswagen Beetles crisscrossed with football and cycling activities. It was not uncommon to see runners and gymnasts practicing amid the colorful microcosm of 1980s Addis, where open space, natural climate, and a spirit of friendship reigned supreme.
Materialism, globalization, and the anonymity of urban life were notions still unknown. People regarded each other as family, and the city’s psyche was more or less homogeneous. Migration was almost nonexistent.
Cycling remained a favorite pastime when I moved on to Black Lion High School, where we rented bikes to ride around the field next to the Victory Monument near the post office. I remember weaving through the less convenient asphalt tarmac, sharing space with taxis, pedestrians, and parked cars. A better spot was the Addis Ababa Stadium biking field, which, like Gabriel Meda, also doubled as a driving school area.
The last time I rode a bicycle was in Dire Dawa, where I rented one and traversed the town from end to end. I started near the Coca-Cola depot by Dechatu, pedaled past Ras Hotel under the cooling shade of Kezira — the neighborhood immortalized in countless romantic ballads. Dire Dawa remains a bike-friendly town, with its flat terrain, clean streets, and moderate traffic.
When I rode that August day nearly 30 years ago, I didn’t realize it would be decades before I got on a bike again. Addis Ababa, by contrast, has never been bike-friendly. Its hectic traffic, steep terrain, and congested, often unclean streets — crowded with unregulated parking, pedestrians, and vendors — have long made it inhospitable to cyclists. It’s no surprise, then, that biking has neither been a practical nor a popular leisure activity in the capital for decades.
Having long abandoned my gym routine, paused my Zumba class after our instructor traveled to his ancestral Armenia, and found the rainy season unsuitable for horse riding, my life had become largely devoid of physical activity — leading to gradual weight gain and dwindling fitness.
So when I spotted a few bicycles for sale at Lomyad Supermarket in Ayat, my imagination ran wild. I began picturing the benefits of cycling — fitness, fun, and a better quality of life. Yet I hesitated. The bikes on display seemed too small for adults. I faced a similar dilemma when I checked All Mart Supermarket in Jemo, leaving again uncertain.
On one of my return visits to Lomyad, however, a gentleman offered me a useful piece of advice: “You should check Piassa, at Atikilt Tera. There are many vendors with all kinds of bikes there.” It was a suggestion that would prove both timely and transformative — and though I wouldn’t recognize that man if we met again, I remain deeply grateful for his kindness.
That weekend, I drove up Churchill Road, past Tewodros Square, turned toward Cathedral School, and passed the Pushkin Center before reaching Atikilt Tera. I parked my car near Piassa, across from the iconic Noor Mosque, and couldn’t resist taking a photo of the minarets rising gracefully behind the historic Arada buildings.
From there, I walked into the alley lined with bicycles of every kind — new and used, modern and classic. My attention was immediately captured by a foldable Dinos bike that could fit neatly into a car trunk. The idea of being able to carry my bike anywhere, park conveniently, ride freely, and return to my car at will was irresistible.
Negotiating the price, however, proved tricky. The vendor had the only foldable model, and several other customers were already inquiring about it. I thought about it for a few days, wavered a bit, and finally gave in to the irresistible urge to make that beautiful bike mine. By the time I placed a down payment it was nearly sold, but I persuaded the young vendor to hold it for me. After a small discount and the final payment, I loaded my new treasure into the car.
It took some maneuvering — folding down the back seats to make extra space — but when I saw the bike again at home, I knew I had struck a good deal. Friends and bike renters around Meskel Square confirmed as much, praising my choice. A quick online search revealed that Dinos, an Italian manufacturer, has been making bicycles for more than 125 years — a reassuring mark of quality.
Then came the real test: Could I still ride a bike after 29 years?
The moment of truth arrived as I climbed onto the seat — 29 years older and 30 kilos heavier. My first attempt was a disaster. I couldn’t balance, my coordination was gone, and my fitness was clearly not what it used to be. I realized I would need some instruction to get back on track.
I turned to YouTube tutorials, which offered modest guidance but no breakthrough. Determined, I drove to a new sports arena near Summit, only to find my efforts there equally frustrating. Finally, I decided to head to Meskel Square, where experienced cyclists and instructors gather in large numbers.
I parked my car at La Pâtisserie Café and crossed over to the Meskel Square biking arena. As soon as I arrived, I paid the 20 birr entrance fee and approached the bike owners for a lesson. But all of them refused, explaining that they could only train people using their own bikes — of which they had plenty for rent. I quickly realized they weren’t eager to help someone who had brought his own. Even my offers to pay for instruction on my own bike were politely declined.
I found myself standing in the vast expanse of Meskel Square, staring at my new bicycle and confronting the unsettling reality that I was on my own. So I decided to rely on the YouTube tips I had watched earlier and gave it a try. And then — alas, and eureka! — after a few awkward, wobbly attempts, it all came rushing back.
As I pedaled across the square, zigzagging between dozens of other cyclists, Celine Dion’s words echoed in my mind: “It’s all coming back to me now.” I realized it wasn’t my weight, lack of fitness, or lost skill that had held me back — it was my own mind. The refusal of the bike owners turned out to be a blessing in disguise, igniting a small spark of indignation that pushed me to reclaim a skill that had never truly left me.
It made me wonder how many things in life pass us by because we are trapped by fear, uncertainty, and doubt. Bob Marley’s words never felt more true: “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds.”
As I rode lap after lap, the wind rushing across my face and chest, the memories of Gabriel Meda, Kezira, Black Lion, and the Addis Ababa Stadium all came flooding back. It felt like reliving a long-forgotten dream in real time.
I returned the next day and repeated the exercise, growing increasingly confident that my riding instincts had fully returned. My next goal is to brave the newly built cycling lanes along Addis Ababa’s corridor project.
Riding safely within the spacious Meskel Square arena is one thing; navigating the city’s bike lanes — amid pedestrians, motorists, and fellow cyclists — will be another challenge entirely.
Before I knew it, I had developed a deep interest in watching the growing biking culture in Addis — and what an eye-opener it has been. To my surprise, the cityscape has transformed beyond recognition. I began noticing a steady flow of cyclists using the newly built bike lanes along the corridor project — a phenomenon that would have been unthinkable not long ago.
One Sunday evening, I was dining with my youngest brother and his family at Hiber Ethiopia restaurant, seated by a large glass window overlooking Bole Road. I was mesmerized by the scene below. Under the bright, modern lights of the corridor, a steady stream of cyclists, scooter riders, and roller skaters glided along the clean, well-marked bike lanes. It seemed as if, almost overnight, a new urban culture had taken root — one that celebrates movement, health, and recreation in equal measure.
On another occasion, I saw an elderly expatriate cruising on his scooter near midnight, a headlamp strapped to his forehead, even though the streetlights already provided more than enough illumination.
The sight brought back a vivid memory from 15 years ago in Frankfurt, Germany, when I accidentally wandered into a cycling lane. A biker sped past me so fast I could feel the gust of air as he brushed by within inches. I was stunned, and only then did I notice that the road was clearly divided — one side for pedestrians, the other for cyclists. At the time, I couldn’t imagine Addis Ababa ever having such orderly, well-maintained lanes.
Yet here we are.
Just as I once doubted my ability to ride a bike again, I had underestimated my city’s ability to transform. Addis has proven both assumptions wrong. Today, the capital proudly boasts beautifully designed cycling lanes — a sign not only of modernization but also of a changing mindset. It shows how much can be achieved when we push past our psychological limits and refuse to settle for less than what’s possible.
Indeed, Addis Ababa has, almost overnight, become one of the most bike-friendly cities in the region. I now look forward to the coming weekends — and any spare hour I can find — to acclimate myself to this new urban rhythm and join the growing community of cyclists reclaiming the city’s streets.
A friend of mine, a professional biker, reminded me that helmets and protective pads for the knees and elbows are essential safety gear for city riding — advice I intend to take seriously. After all, rediscovering freedom on two wheels is one thing; keeping it safe and sustainable is another.
Contributed by Bereket Balcha