A Tale of True Love

Das Rant | March 2018

I found a picture while sweeping the interwebs in attempt to harvest knowledge that summed up what just may be the perfect Valentine’s dinner. In it we have a man, dressed in full riding regalia, sharing a candlelit dinner with his pride & joy: his mountain bike.

He toasts presumably a red wine to the bike’s silent compay; it’s plate filled with various tasty lubricants and chemicals.

This whole thing made me laugh of course when I saw it on Facebook on Valentine’s Day but later on I got to thinking: What if our bikes demanded the type of care and attention that does a real human-human relationship? Would we be willing to put up with it?

I personally like to think I would. After all, whenever I put in an epic ride, some part of me likes to think that I didn’t only do it for my own enjoyment but for my bike’s as well. Sort of like taking your dog for a walk in the park.

Whenever it gets caked with mud, I can be found washing my sweet Niner and gently patting it down with microfiber after not at all unlike giving someone a shower.

When parts wear and break, I take her shopping with me. Often times I opt to buy her bling that goes well beyond my budget just because I know how good it’ll look on her.

I show her off to my friends- sometimes just by letting her sit amongst their dates er I mean bikes, casually glancing at her from afar.

I talk to her nightly. Especially after crashes that are my fault. I’m not so proud as to be unable to admit when I’m wrong.

I feel guilty when I’ve put on some winter weight knowing she’s going to have to support it come spring

I often buy transport solutions to get her to the trail-head in luxury and comfort while the spring in my own truck’s seat pokes me in the ass.

I feel her pangs of jealousy whenever I bring home another bike. Especially when I park it next to her.

I felt joy the day I brought her home. I’ll feel empty should the day come when she leaves me for a new rider.

The more I think about it- there is no question we form bonds with our bikes that go well beyond the confides of man and machine. Explaining why whenever I encounter someone’s bike let outside, neglected, rusted solid, I’m amazed there isn’t an abuse hotline I could call. I would have no qualms about government agents swooping in, taking the bike away from its owner and placing them on some kind of probation. No more bikes until they can prove to the court that they are suitable partners.

Of course if my bike expected a Valentine’s Day dinner from me - things would be a little bit different than the picture that started this whole line of reasoning. There would be a grill involved and charred flesh pouring fragrant smoke into the February evening sky. There may be a toast but rather than wine, we’re talking some IPA nobody’s ever heard of. And while riding gear looks nice, I can’t be so restricted during a feat of this caliber. No, this is the kind of occasion that demands baggy shorts and a well worn wife beater.

Honestly, it’s kind of surprising my bike hasn’t left me.

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