After being laid off from his factory that winter, my dad bought a used motorbike with his severance money and became the newest bike-taxi driver in the neighbourhood. Every morning, he would leave home at six, wipe down his bike with a bucket of hot water, place his helmet on the back seat, and join the group of other drivers who waited by our apartment building. It was hard to tell him apart from the others – they all wore beanies, parkas and leather kneepads. Each morning, before the first passenger showed up, my dad and the other drivers would hang out on the street corner. They would set up a metal paint bucket at the roadside, throw in some broken pieces of wood, pour in some gas, and light everything up. The flames always shot up into the cold air and coughed out smouldering embers. They would immediately huddle around the bucket, stomping their feet to keep themselves warm. Taking their hands out of their pockets, they would slowly extend their arms towards the flames, as if they were practising tai chi, before quickly wrapping their warm palms around their cheeks. At a distance, their morning gathering looked like the most miserable party in the world.

From then on, the first passengers would arrive. The drivers always took their time warming up the engines, before releasing the clutches and letting their bikes roll a short distance on the road. This time was needed to awaken their eyes – the waves of heat from the fire having melted the people and the buildings in the background into a dreamy blur. The cold winter gusts seemed to bring back the drivers’ spirits, and they would slowly twist the throttles forward as the world crystallised in front of their eyes.

The prices of the bike rides varied and depended entirely on negotiation. Typically, a passenger would announce their destination, and the driver would purse his lips, complain about how hard it’d be to get there, and ask for five yuan. The passenger would tell the driver to cut the crap because they’d only paid three yuan in the past. All right, three yuan, the driver would say with a reluctant look. I’ll give you a discount, but think of me when you need a ride next time, okay? The passenger would agree, hop on the bike and say, Don’t crash the bike, let’s get going.

Summer was the best season to be a bike-taxi driver, as there were always people who needed quick rides. And the drivers could ride their bikes at full speed. They got to watch the lush trees lining the streets rush by, as the cool summer wind raked their hair and massaged their arms beneath their sleeves. Winter was more difficult. There were fewer passengers, and drivers had to endure the freezing wind that slashed their faces and pierced through their bones. The streets were covered in black ice and became impossible to drive on. Motorbikes went down one after another next to piles of snow that didn’t melt for months.

My dad picked the wrong time to be born. The government sent him down to the countryside when he was a teenager, and his factory sent him packing when he had a family. He’d always tried to ride the tide of his time – all he wanted was to become one of the many who lived a good life in a promising nation; but by the time he figured out the right actions to take, the ship had already sailed. It took him a long time to realise that he would forever be stranded on the shore.

When he first became a bike-taxi driver, during the winter months, there were so few passengers that he ended up spending more time blowing his runny nose than riding his bike. He made about thirty yuan on a good day, but that number dropped to ten when luck wasn’t on his side. Things improved in the spring, after the Lunar New Year. The weather warmed up, and the demand for bike-taxi rides slowly increased. Most of my dad’s morning passengers were elementary- and middle-school kids who’d woken up late and didn’t have enough money to get a cab. My dad was there to take them to school just in time for the flag-raising ceremony. I watched him become happier each day – after several difficult months without alcohol or cigarettes, he was finally able to treat himself to a drink or half a pack of Hongmei at night.

My dad was busy during the week, but had little to do on Saturdays and Sundays, when most people preferred to take the bus or ride their bicycles rather than hail a bike-taxi. With his spare time, my dad dropped me off at my cram school in the morning and picked me up in the afternoon. And while he was waiting for my lessons to end, he would usually play cards with his bike-taxi driver friends. On a good day, he could even win a few dimes. His friends thought I was going to piano lessons, until my dad told them about my maths and English teachers at the cram school. One friend asked him if I was falling behind at school. He’s fine, my dad said, Just learning some more advanced topics. His teachers at school organise the lessons, who knows what they’d think if we didn’t sign him up? Another friend said, That’s horseshit, his teachers just want more money. My dad shook his head and said, It’s a lot of money, and nobody has a damn clue if my son has learned anything useful. But what can we do about it? They didn’t force us to sign up. His friends told him to take it easy. It’s good that he’s taking English lessons, one of them said. He can go to college and become an interpreter for the government.

One afternoon, after two rounds of card games, my dad stood up to stretch his legs and have a quick smoke. Leaning on the backseat of his bike, he spotted a slender middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket, waving at him and his friends. The man’s back was hunched over, his eyes sunken, his lips dark, the skin on his face saggy. His keychain clanked beneath his belt as he walked towards my dad and the other drivers. Can anyone give me a ride to Wulihe? he hollered from a distance.

Most bike-taxi rides were shorter than ten minutes. Wulihe was on the other side of Qingnian Dajie Avenue, two districts and seventeen bus stops away, in the south of the city. This meant that every route to Wulihe passed through Nanba Road or Liangdong Bridge, both of which were police hotspots. And since, yes, bike-taxis were technically illegal – a driver could have their bike confiscated if they got caught by the police – most drivers simply refused to go near those two places.

My dad’s friends looked at each other – nobody answered the man. My dad said, Wulihe is so far away! How much would you pay?

The man asked how much my dad would charge. My dad thought about it and said, We might run into the police along the way. You’re paying at least twenty.

Twenty? I could pay five more and get a cab. Fifteen, take it or leave it. I’m in a hurry, and you bikers go real fast through the back alleys, I can count on you to get me there in time.

Fine, hop on, it’s not like I have another passenger anyway, my dad said, waving at him. Fifteen’s better than zero. You’re helping me pay for my son’s weekend lessons.

My dad rolled the throttle forward, and the motorbike merged onto the main road. Without turning around, my dad shouted back to the man, his voice carried away by the blasting wind, Dude, you better not throw me under the bus if we run into the police. I’m telling them we’re visiting an old friend together. I’ll be completely screwed if I lose my bike. I need to pay my family’s bills!

The man’s voice came from behind my dad, No need to worry, my man. We’ve got time to get to know each other and figure out what to say. I’m Xiao Shubin. I used to work in the flour factory cafeteria.

I used to work in the transformer factory, my dad said. Is the flour factory still doing okay?

Okay my ass! The factory’s made no flour for years, said Xiao Shubin.

It’s early afternoon on a weekend. Why are you going to Wulihe? my dad asked him.

Going to a football game. Shenyang Sealions’s first home game. I’m going to inspect it.

Inspect? So you’re one of those government higher-ups, my dad teased.

C’mon, man. Do I look like a higher-up? I’m inspecting my old co-workers. I worked in the Sealions cafeteria after the flour factory gave me the boot. I know the Sealions people very well, said Xiao Shubin.

Isn’t there a new goalie from South America on the team this year?

I hear you, man. You know ball. Yes, Miguel Miranda from Peru. I’m going to see if he’s any good.

He probably has really good vertical, my dad added.

Of course, South American players have flexible bodies. Think of René Higuita, the scorpion-kick guy, from Colombia. Look at how he dives, how he folds his body mid-air!

If I’m being honest, my dad commented, the Sealions need to be careful they don’t get relegated.

Relegation shouldn’t be a problem, but what kind of future do we have to look forward to if that’s all we care about? We aren’t playing to win, we’re playing to not lose. That’s why we live at the bottom of the league table, Xiao Shubin lamented.

My dad rode his motorbike very fast, as if he was riding the wind. In the rear-view mirrors, he saw Xiao Shubin sit up straight, his gaze level above my dad’s helmet. He watched out for road signs and mud puddles and directed my dad to the fastest routes down the steepest slopes. They drove through red lights, passed intercity buses, and went beneath bridges without running into the police. A few minutes before kick-off, they arrived at Wulihe stadium safe and sound.

Xiao Shubin hopped off the bike and took off the helmet. Standing in front of the stadium, he stared at the high concrete wall solemnly. A few wet strands of hair stuck on his scalp. He turned to my dad, paid for the ride, and handed him the helmet with both hands.

Why not join me for the game? he said to my dad.

Not today. I still need to pick up my son, but let’s go to a game together this year for sure. My dad nodded to him, before heading home.

That evening, after my dad and I got home from cram school, my dad parked his bike in the garage, dusted it with a dry towel, and headed to the neighbourhood store for a beer. I tagged along, and that was how I met Xiao Shubin. He was sitting on a stool in front of the store, picking his teeth. I thought he looked hideous – under the dim street light, his hair looked as if it had never been washed. He spotted my dad and greeted him. My dad asked how come he was back so early, to which he responded that someone had given him a ride. My dad asked him about the game. Xiao Shubin answered, Nil–nil, nothing exciting, but our goalie had a few crazy saves, it’s a shame you missed out. By the way, guess who else was at the game? China’s number one football fan, Rossi, the man who lost his job and family because of football. He was wearing that fucking cowboy hat and going bananas after every shot. It was just as you’d expect.

My dad changed the topic and asked him if he lived nearby. Xiao Shubin answered that he’d recently moved into the NE Pharm dorm across the street, and he’d come to the store to watch the sports news because he didn’t have a TV at home. My dad nodded and went into the store, grabbing two beers. When he came back, Xiao Shubin pointed his chin at me and asked, This your boy? My dad said yes. Xiao Shubin asked how old I was. Eleven, my dad answered for me. Xiao Shubin stared at me for half a minute, before suddenly raising the pitch of his voice and saying, Kid, why you got that briefcase under your arm? You love going to school, huh? My dad said that I’d just returned from cram school, and that I loved watching TV more than going to English lessons. Xiao Shubin responded, I also got a boy with me, he hated school, never did any homework, I sent his ass to a sports academy, now he’s the starting forward for the academy’s football team. My dad said, Your boy must be very good. He’s got a bright future. He’ll at least become the next Li Jinyu, and who knows how high his ceiling might be? Xiao Shubin said, But he’s short, he could use a few more centimetres, other than that, he’s got the best technique on the team. He can beat any defender, hands down.