When it works it works. When it doesn’t…oh my god it sucks. 

We flew JetBlue. Once, never again, I promise you. After a year on the road, eight flights, eight countries, one bike, 23,000 photos, infinite stories and lessons, one less appendix, a few scars, and some of the most exciting, beautiful and fulfilling days of my life, I was ready to leave Africa after almost a year. It was supposed to be simple. The bike goes on the plane. We go home. Life goes on. 

My girlfriend was working in a hospital in Tanzania. I was riding around for months, bikepacking Kilimanjaro, riding around the country, getting after it. But all things must come to an end. I had my Orucase B2. My girlfriend did not. She found an old box at the hospital once used to carry an X-ray machine, cut it up, put the bike in, packed it, taped it shut. Classic. What could go wrong? 

We flew Turkish Airlines from Tanzania to Amsterdam and it was fine. Early wake up and no lines and jokes in Swahili and mandazi kwa chai for breakfast. Flying in and out of Africa can feel a bit dicey with a nice carbon bike. But this go around? No issues. We stayed in Amsterdam for a week to get things sorted, eating everything we couldn’t find in Tanzania, enjoying not being harassed, catching up on sleep. Then back to San Diego for work. Flying Amsterdam to San Diego feels routine now. I’ve used a few different companies over the years and never had an issue. JetBlue had the cheapest option and they’re rated highly by their customers. Easy choice it seemed. I miss my family. Let’s go home.

So we show up about two hours prior to departure, how it normally goes, yeah? We weigh the boxes and they’re ok. We wait. We talk to the guy at the counter. He’s from Montenegro. I always try and make a joke or small talk and see if they can give us a bit of help on the bike fee. I’ve actually been to Montenegro. I was accidentally baptized while bikepacking through it once, but that’s a different story. He looks at our bags. He pulls out his gruff Eastern European accent and says “Uhhhh…this won’t work.”

He calls over his supervisor. Short, hair pulled back tight, veins in her pasty forehead, glasses with smudges on the lenses and wear on the rim. She’s talking into her radio. She’s frantic, glancing left and right, on edge, not having any fun. She’s out of breath. She can’t believe our audacity. You can’t fly with a cardboard box! What are you thinking!

Uhhhh. Why not?

iTs cOmPanY POlicY!

Yeah but like…what does that even mean? Why can’t we?

BECAUSE IT’S COMPANY POLICY!!!!

She grabs her radio and yells in Dutch. She says my bike, in my fancy Orucase B2 is fine. But Bo’s, in her cardboard box, the one from Tanzania that once carried an X-ray machine, it will have to stay here. Sorry, company policy! And she storms away. The guy from Montenegro says “Sorry bud…” and waves the next customers over. 

But now what? We can’t just leave the bikes here. They’re OUR BIKES! What would I be WITHOUT MY BIKE!!?

I run off after my new enemy. I find her talking angrily. I try to say how I’ve done this a million times and it’s never been a problem. This is stupid. 

It’s company policy!

Yeah. But it’s a stupid one. 

I say I’m a professional, that we just rode around Tanzania, I tell a story about my bike being stolen in Morocco and running after it in my underwear to get it back. She chuckles. She says she went to Zanzibar on vacation. I keep my opinions to myself. Of course she went to Zanzibar. 

She’s warming up now. She talks about her favorite Tanzanian beer. I make my joke in Dutch. I say “Wow, I just LOVE the Netherlands. The INFRASTRUCTURE!” And I can tell she’s getting warmer. She says wait here. She makes a call. I stand there, nervous, sweating in my Keffiyeh, trembling in my boots. She walks back. She says we can take the bike, but only if I buy an official airport cardboard box. She beats me to the chase. I know it’s stupid. But you need to do it if you want to bring your bike. 

Thank you. Bye! I run. I am panicking. We have only an hour now. I still have to go through customs. I run to the basement. I stampede over a small child. I jump off an old lady’s wheelchair. I parkour down the stairs, backflip, Spider-Man, wingsuit. I fly, I push over a stroller and take the ice cream from the floor. I am sweating. I am so angry. I am in the basement of Schipol airport and now I am paying $30 for a cardboard box. Can you believe this! I tell the guy behind the counter. $30 for a stupid cardboard box! But he doesn’t care. Why would he? He’s workin here!

I run it back up the stairs. I push the same small child over. I jump off the same old lady’s wheelchair. My keffiyeh is my cape and I am Tom Cruise and flying back home is now my Mission Impossible number 6. 

My girlfriend is unpacking her box. She’s pissed. I’m sweating. We try not to fight. We grumble about JetBlue. Stupidest policy ever. 

The box is double the size. There’s nothing to protect her bike from flying around. It slides around like a hotdog in a hallway. Of course it will be thrown violently from the ground and into the plane and back. In San Diego we will open the box and the derailleur hanger will be bent and the frame is now scratched and a spoke is broken. 

All from a stupid baggage policy. Thank you JetBlue. For nothing. 

My bike arrived fine, I never had to panick, and I didn’t even have to pay the fee. So if you are going to fly JetBlue, I would highly recommend a bike case. And I see you’ve found the right place.