Life Cycles

Bikes, often times like women, come and go. We ride them for a few seasons, swap out particular parts that don’t do it for us, breaks others, and then get rid of it by trading it in towards a new, shiny, better model, by selling it online or in the want ads or by giving it to a friend or family member who could use it. It’s one of the cycles of cycling.

I have been riding the bikes I own for way too long now, but can’t complain. They’ve made the years better, and even if I had some extra dough to replace them, probably wouldn’t. My girlfriend, who has been with my poor ass since I’ve owned these hogs, has also had her bike for equally as long. But unlike the deep attachment I have for my old, aging steeds, my special lady friend – Lydia is her name – has got to get rid of her bike ASAP. It is a matter of her survival.

Lydia rides a Gary Fisher Mt Tam. It’s not a bad bike by any stretch of the word but it’s definitely not a good bike either, for her at least. It is a solid ride for XC dudes who have more tight fitting garments in their dressers than she does, but for an everyday, bike path cruising, riding-to-the-bar-kinda-chick, a raked out cross country bike is the last thing she needs.

Why…? Because she can’t ride it without falling.

Lydia would never claim to be a mountain biker; she’s smarter than this and knows better than to spend substantial amounts of time in the woods with her boyfriend’s friends and their kind. As circumstance would have it, she rides a mountain bike because back in college she worked for a gigantic sporting goods store that sold Gary Fishers. Go figure, eh. She got a deal on it and, well, the rest leads us to here.

Three out of the last five times Lydia has ridden that goddamn bike she’s fallen. And they were all remarkable falls – great, bruising crashes. I was with her for all of them, watched the woman I love hurtle towards the ground helpless. The worst part is they were all on asphalt.

The first one happened on our way back from the bar at around two in the morning. Yes, we were drunk, and no; don’t think it affected her ability to operate the bicycle. Well, maybe it did. Either way, she ended up launching over the bars, totally superman-ed out, when she failed to notice a large curb. Slammo time. It looked so painful. She’s got a nice scar on her knee as a souvenir from the event.

The second wipe out came on a similar night also during the wee hours of the morning. This time for some unbeknownst reason she lost all control of the bike in the middle of a quiet street and slammed shoulder and headfirst into the side of a rad 70’s camper van. Lydia was fine this time.

And lastly, the most recent bail, which happened only a few weeks ago, took place in the middle of the day when she was sober as a whistle. You could say that the Fisher’s not the problem but Lydia’s sobriety and you might have an argument. This most recent bail nullified this thought, however, and gave me 100 percent in saying, “Yes sweetie, you should get a new bike. You’re not a drunk.”

We were riding around the streets of our neighborhood enjoying the day. We had been riding for about an hour, on dirt and off, and not once had I wondered if she was going to fall. She was looking good up on that Fisher. We start down a gentle hill and gradually begin gaining speed. With the speed carrying me along nicely, I take my hands off the bars and ride handless.

Crazy, I know.

Lydia is an arm’s length beside me loving the feeling of just coasting along. She smiles. Then, all of a sudden, the ends of our bars touch and things get sticky. Since my hands aren’t where they should be I have no choice but to jump ship and bar-hop. I jump off my bike, hop over the bars of the crashing bike and land on my feet, narrowly escaping getting roaded. Lydia, unaware of what to do in situations of this nature, doesn’t get away from her bike and ends up slamming to the street below.

I see the whole thing happen and try to do something but can’t, she’s already on the ground, her bike mixed up with her legs and arms, agonizing in the embarrassment and the pain of doing this once again.

From this latest fall she still has a huge, I mean huge, the size of a teacup saucer, bruise on her thigh where the stem and top tube punched her.

The chick is tough as nails, gotta give her that for sure, but I don’t know, it could be me, but I think that this Fisher isn’t working out so well for her. I think it’s time for her to get a new bike. A nice laid back, slow, cruising bike that is safe for those late night scrambles home from wherever you’ve been at.

She’s actually been on my ass to help her get a new one. Looks like the ole Fisher is going to be getting a little bite of a tune up and is then going to be shipped out. The cycle continues on.