The answer, of course, is No.

By Chris Dannen

I’ve been mocking roadies for almost as long as I’ve been riding bikes on dirt. With their anemic tires, absurdly tight get-ups and their health-conscious lifestyles, they were ripe for parody in the eyes of this 14 year-old shithead, riding his cro-mo GT hardtail with Quadra 5 shocks. But every year that I’ve ridden a mountain bike, I’ve found myself ribbing roadies a little less. I think the invective stopped for good when I bought my first heart rate monitor.

Now, years after first sneering at the shaven, sinewy riders that churned across the New England hills of my youth, I have become an official road bike owner. It arrived at my house yesterday from the gentlemen at Laguna Beach Cyclery, a fine little shop in Southern California. With an inventory that boasts more carbon fiber than a NASA workshop, these guys know their way around a road bike. Needless to say I was pumped to whip around on the rig they’d set me up with. I was less pumped when it arrived at my house with the shit beat out of it.

Now, I’m not going to call out any major shipping carriers here. This column is about the experience of riding bikes, not the shameless idiocy and reckless carelessness of some drunk asshole warehouse worker 1500 miles away. Let’s just say, these guys ship like a billion packages a day. They should have figured out how to keep the boxes intact by this point.

An entire third of the cardboard arrived crushed and ripped almost clean off the rest of the box. Pulling the bike out, I found the rear wheel (they look so delicate on road bikes, don’t they?) warped and dished like a plastic plate under a radiator. The rest of the bike was more or less okay. The wheel was the apparent hero. It braved a big hit.

So, I did what I could: I said “fuck” a bunch of times. I crushed a Red Bull to try and gain a little focus for the task at hand. And I called the Claims department of the shipping company.

Reaching a clumsy automated operator (we’ll call her Doris), a voice-activated menu told me with infuriating courtesy that I should speak the phrase “Shipping Information” to get the scoop on filing insurance claims.

Me: Shipping Information.
Doris: I think you said, Tracking Information. Is this correct?
Me: No. I said ‘Shipping Information.’
Doris: I’m sorry. I don’t understand that.
Me: Shipping Information. Shipping Information, fucking Shipping Information.
Doris: I’m sorry. Please repeat your choice.
Me: This is ridiculous.
Doris: Okay. I’ll transfer you to a customer service representative.

In unwavering monotone, Pam the shipping insurance lady told me she’d send out a claims adjuster to survey the damage and approve some kind of compensation. Now of course, I’m still pissed. Sure, I’ll get a new wheel and some moral high ground on corporate America, and all will be well, but the reality is that I’m a little relieved that my bike got here unrideable. Because, what if I liked it? What if I liked it a little too much?

It’s not lost on me that I ride bikes to go faster than I can on two feet. Running, for example. has become one of the most tedious forms of exercise since I’ve started cycling, second only to the squeeze-grip thing that graces the coffee tables of so many out-of-shape bachelors. I’ve seen how fast roadies can rip descents, full tuck, eyes bleary. It looks like fun. A hell of a lot of fun.

So what will become of my mountain bikes when the road rig is set to roll, and there’s so much asphalt stretching across the state, just steps from my door? What if I eventually don’t need mud anymore to have a good spin? Will I become a dedicated roadie? Will I start shaving my legs? Do girls still talk to guys who shave their legs?

The answer to the latter question, of course, is No. I don’t doubt that. And because I don’t, I have a feeling that as much as I’ll love riding on the road, my original loyalties will remain intact. Because no hundred pounds of tire pressure or hundred miles of road can begin to replace the South’s ribbons of mud-caked singletrack. Or her girls, for that matter. Especially the ones from Georgia.