My Bicycle, pt. 2: The Rest of the Story

I have a decent relationship with my bike. We get along most of the time. I’d even go so far as to say I love my bike. But I have a confession: I am not in love.

“So what?” you’re thinking, “there’s nothing wrong with that!” In fact, many of you in this blog’s readership are probably thinking it would be a little unusual if I was in love with my bike.

But I lament this absence because I was in love with a bike once. My heart got broken and most of my bicycle relationships since have been tumultuous at best.

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I bought my glorious steed from Canadian Tire with money from my tax return. It was blue and silver, had shocks, and went really fast. We had an instant connection. Of course, it was quite a step up from the $10 cherry-red piece of junk I had been using, with unbelievably warped wheels and breaks that could only be described as decorative.

We had a great summer – like most first loves, ours was pure and innocent and full of joy. And then, while in a job interview, my love was stolen. On Yonge Street. Around 11am. In broad daylight! I was devastated. I was nearly inconsolable. And I certainly wasn’t going to buy a new bike. Not after such a violation. It was just too soon.

So I paid a visit to Yanno and Jeffcote – my neighborhood bike mechanics – to find something that would get me around town. Thus I came into possession of The Gremlin, a compact green mountain bike, whose frame most likely outweighed me twice over. We hated each other. I’d regularly curse all the way back from work, and storm into the apartment, livid. It got so bad that my roommate offered to take The Gremlin off my hands, mostly I’m sure so he wouldn’t have to endure the nightly post-ride tantrum.

Back to the shop. Jeffcote introduced me to AnnaBelle Blue. The price was right and the name Jeffcote had christened her with was so charming. But she came with a warning (I’m not even making this up): Jeffcote was convinced she was cursed. I thought that was a little extreme.

In retrospect, I believe that AnnaBelle Blue harbored an unrequited crush on Jeffcote. He was eager to get her out of the shop because no matter where he was, somehow, he would trip on her, or she would fall over when he passed. It went on and on. I giggled and took the bike, because he was always teasing me, anyway.

But I should have listened. AnnaBelle made it so she had to go back to see Jeffcote on a regular basis. With every visit, the initial “good” price steadily became less so. And every time he saw her coming through the door, Jeffcote would shake his fist and through gritted teeth, grumble, “AnnaBelle Blue…!”

After that, the next bike I rode regularly had actually been in my possession since I was a teen. The Green Bee was a bit of a clunker with a too-small frame, but it got the job done. Springtime rolled around and it became clear that I’d be happier with a new bike. And though I had intended to get a mountain bike, I was reluctantly persuaded to get a hybrid. I think that faint resentment is why there’s a lack of love between me and my current steed.

I guess bike relationships kind of work like human relationships. There’s really no way to recapture that first-love elation, is there?