I love bikes!

I walk out the back door a little anxious as I am leaving with just enough time to get to work. My bike is sitting just out the door as it usually is. I grab it and begin walking it around the corner and to the gate. It’s nothing special, just an old Specialized AWOL that is currently covered in dust and pecan sap.

I look down at the bike, it’s actually been a couple of days since I’ve ridden it as the Big Easy has the novel appeal, a smile spreads across my face. The purple bar tape, matching frame bag with purple accents and the somewhat ragged Save Pioneer Park plate on the back force a little lighthearted giggle out of me.

I love this bike!

Exiting the backyard with the smile still spread across my face, I swing my leg over the top tube thrusting my left leg down propelling me out to the sidewalk. I see that nothing is coming and crank down with the right leg. The crisp air hits my face, my smile gets bigger. By the time I hit the corner, I’m moving fast enough that it’s a bit scary to make it around. I cut it close and barely stay in the lane as I head toward the boulevard. My smile hasn’t lessened.

The ride is only a few blocks, but rolling into the shop, I’m stoked. I still have that “I love this bike!” look on my face. Time for work.

I roll up next to the sign for Ice House click out my right foot, drop the seat and stop. I’m somewhere around 15 miles in and a couple of thousand feet of climbing and due for a snack. I pull out a ProBar, open it, break it in half and eat it. Looking down at my bike that familiar smile rises on my face. My phone comes out and I snap a quick photo and think to myself, “Damn, I love this bike.”

Finished with my snack, I clip back in and begin the coast down the dirt road, pedal the rocky ascent and then begin the long downhill that is Ice House. My steed is dialed almost driving itself. The Trust fork moves out of the way as the countless basalt rocks try to impede my forward momentum. The lack of gears is my only obstacle to going faster, but to be honest, I don’t want to be going any faster.

The descent is a ripper. The recent fires sucked, but they did clear the trail of the invasive cheatgrass brought to us by ranchers that usually covers all the rocks and can make the ride sketchy. About halfway down, I stop to give my arms a bit of a rest. I’m all alone. The singletrack stretches out before me like a negative ink sketch. Everything is black except that sinuous line leading me down.

It’s quiet. It takes a few moments before I notice the roar of the city below me. I turn around and look back up and love the scene unfolding behind me. Pine Valley Mountain (aka my mountain) looms above me bordered by the Juniper forest that didn’t get burned and then the part I’ve just ripped down is black, sooty burnt desert.

I needed a disconnect from what we call connected and a reconnection to what we call disconnected. Nature stretches out around me for miles only interrupted by the cancerous cell of humanity. My bike is between my legs, my connection to the land has been renewed and I am fucking stoked that my bike brought me here, for this one moment to revel in the beauty that surrounds me before ducking back into IT and getting things done.

I rip the rest of the descent.

I’ve been back at work for a few hours and I can’t stop talking about my bike which is a good thing seeing that is kind of my job. Even Sir Gurr takes notices and mentions that he hasn’t seen me this excited about a bike in ages. And he’s right. It can be hard for me to get stoked on a specific bike. I’m usually more stoked on the ride, the experience, the suffering, the clearing of the head and it’s been a hot minute since a bike took precedent in front of those things.

The ride was a quick early morning jaunt up Jay’s Wash out to the Stucki Point (headwind all the way up) and then a ripper of a drop back to the Navajo Trailhead. Nothing special. The only thing that was different was my new bike. I decided that I was going to go for something completely different and instead of getting another double squishy space-aged toy I would delve into the gravel bike world and picked up a Diverge.

Coming up the Microloop, I was surprised at how smooth the ride was seated over the chunky rocks. Jay’s Wash provided me with the sensation of “Holy Shit! This bike goes when I put down some power.” And then there was the descent. Tailwind from the point down, skinnyish tires and gears. Wow! That ride hadn’t put that big of a smile on my face in ages. It usually makes me disgusted at mountain bikers and wanting to hide and never go around popular trails again, but instead it made me go back every couple of weeks for the last few months.

Holy shit, I love this bike.

In reality, bikes are tools. They are meant to be used. The more you use them, the more they tend to melt away and provide you with an experience instead of an object. All of my bikes are different in significant ways. They provide me with nuanced abilities to snag the experience that I want.

I watched this the other day.

Somewhere in there Matty says he feels sorry for people who don’t have bikes because he loves them that much.

I know I am preaching to the choir, but bikes are rad. Moving under your own power is a purely human thing that should be indulged in at every opportunity.

I fucking love my bike!

Peace. Love. and Revolution.