EDITOR’S NOTE: Far too often we only focus on one side of an affair. Let’s look at this one from both sides. Another in an on-again, off-again series If Bikes Could Talk.
By One of Raz’s Bikes
Confession time.
He never meant for it to happen. He wasn’t looking for me. I wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t prepared for it.
It always happens that way, so they say.
It never ceases to amaze me when it comes to matters of the heart. Logic? We don’t need no stinkin’ logic. Logic ain’t for lovers.
Some of extenuating circumstances set him up for the fall. He was on the road. He was lonely.
He was in Frostburg, Maryland. Just passing through town in the midst of the 1996 U.S. Olympic road trials, or so I thought. Actually, he went way the heck out of his way to get to Frostburg.
He became obsessed a few years earlier with obtaining a sweatshirt from Frostburg State that he could wear every Christmas. I know, inside joke. That’s his brand of humor, Wisconsin born and bred. He found the sweatshirt. He could have just left town.
He should have just left town.
But he didn’t.
Like a siren, I called to him, though he did not know it at the time. He thought he was drawn, magically, mystically, to the downtown section of Frostburg. Right there in the middle of town, he saw my place.
He parked out on the street, then thought better of it. He pulled around the block, through the alley, and rolled by again at a slower pace. Eventually, he parked in the alley and went for it.
Funny how one can be in any town, in any state in probably any country, and some businesses ALWAYS look the same. This was no exception. It looked no different than the place he went to in China. Or Australia. Yep, he couldn’t help himself those times, either. On the road. Lonely.
He walked in that day in Frostburg determined to be serviced. He wasn’t going to accept anything less. He worked out his bargaining strategy over and over in his head, but I knew that in the end, he would be digging out all his cash. That’s why he went to the ATM first. Easy come, easy go.
After a little small talk, he got down to business. Personal preferences.
It’s cute how he always gets uncomfortable when someone asks what he likes and doesn’t like. He doesn’t really like to offend people, so he generally avoids such conversations.
Some people pick up on that. It’s a turn-on for them. So they pry and pry and pry, and watch him squirm. They won’t take a vague answer. I suppose that’s a price you have to pay. Selling your soul.
OK, fine, he said. Truth be known, he loves the outdoorsy type. No pretty little city slicker. He likes it rugged. He doesn’t care about weight or even looks, for that matter. He likes old and reliable.
He loves experience.
They sized him up from behind the counter. They looked him over once more, then motioned for him to follow. To the back, then through a door. Then to another door, and headed down the dim lit stairs into the basement.
He took a deep breath and followed. He strolled past some fine looking options. It struck him as odd that such gems were hidden in the basement, but he couldn’t let his eye stray. He moved away from the lighted section, more toward the dark end. I got a chill.
There he was. Standing there gazing at me with a twinkle in his eye. Looking me over. Soaking in my details.
Without hesitation, he pulled out the cash. $200. Every last cent he took out of the ATM. No bickering. It didn’t matter. When it’s love at first sight, you do crazy things. That was it. The transaction was complete.
For the rest of that road trip, he rode me hard. He rode me in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. On a country road in West Virginia. No, on a LOT of roads in West Virginia. The hard roads of Pittsburgh. On the streets of Philadelphia.
He tried to unload me in Philadelphia, but there were no takers. I wasn’t quite the catch to others as I was to him. Maybe he rode me too hard.
So he flew me home, back to Colorado. For three years he’d do nooners with me, despite what others said. You can imagine how brutal detractors can be. Especially where he worked, surrounded by “experts” in our field.
They made fun of me all the time.
They could never guess how old I was.
They laughed that they’d never seen anything like me before.
No matter. I was his, and he was mine.
I went with him to Texas. Despite the heat and humidity, we did it day and night. Every morning and every afternoon. Before work and after work. He started sharing me with his wife. Folks told him he shouldn’t. They listed a number of reasons. Some about safety. Some about style. It doesn’t matter, he did it.
He was in love.
He tried his best to show me love and respect. He was the only one.
The techies? Oh, they laughed hard at my nameless front shock. No one ever saw anything like it. I’d just ignore them. And wait for him. Then we’d hit the road or the trail. Whatever. We were meant for each other.
Now I’m not saying it’s his fault for sharing me with his wife. We did have some good rides. I go both ways. I’m not a prude.
And I’m not saying it’s her fault, but when the wild wind blows across the Texas plains, well, you need to pay it the respect it deserves. I’d be lying if I didn’t love the thrill of the wind smacking me as we flew along the highway that fateful day.
But it all turned in an instant.
I lost my grip for just a moment. Then, whoa! I was flying — right into the front bumper of that pickup. I knew it was over. Damaged beyond repair. Yep, it was an ugly way to go.
But at least we had those three magical years together.
Time to ride.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Raz’s GT Timberline mountain bike had been described by former VeloNews technical editor Charles Pelkey as a bike, “… as old as anything with gears toting a GT sticker. The fork was a pure mystery to most of us. It looked like something someone may have dredged out of the recycling bin from the RockShox R&D lab. No name, no labels and, from what I could tell, no reason to ride it.”
