Bikelust

The Sea Otter Classic has just finished its run here on the Monterey Peninsula, and boy am I glad that’s over.

Let me explain.

The long weekend of bicycle racing was awesome. The weather was beautiful. My friends and I had a fabulous time (Me, working a crit––upper left––with lust in my heart.).

But the bikes. Oh, it was hard to be around the bikes.

They are just too gorgeous, and they push my buttons.

A team van piled high with pink and white Pinarellos for the Telekom boys. A bad-action posse of Gary Fisher mountain bikes gleaming and ready for the dirt. Even the yellow neutral-support bikes seemed beautiful to me, all lined up in a row ready to save somebody’s bacon.

All around me were gorgeous bikes: steel, carbon, aluminum, titanium, iniums of all varieties. Components of every shape and size, wheels made to be lighter, stronger, better, faster…just like Steve Austin—the bionic one, not the stone cold one.

I have to confess: I am vulnerable to beautiful bicycles. I am weak. I can be swayed by "new bike smell." It is for this reason that I try to avoid bike shops at all costs.

After what happened to me this weekend, I think I should never go to Interbike.

I try to be strong and inoculate myself against temptation. I contemplate my wallet—small. I contemplate my legs—sticks. I try to shame myself into dreaming small: maybe new wheels someday, or a used something or other as a backup in case something happens to my bike.

I made a big, bad mistake on Friday. I stopped by the Kestrel tent to ask a few questions. There’s a little chip on my frame I was a bit worried about, and I wanted to know if it was OK, how to touch it up, etc.

Of course, the Kestrel men were more than friendly and accommodating. It was then that something off to the right caught my eye.

It was a 200EMS frame, but of course that was not all. I can resist that most days, talking myself out of the need for an upgrade using the two-step method described above.

What was really enticing about this bike was its paint job, an orange clearcoat over a new, improved kind of weave. The one they were showing was, naturally, a prototype. It is called "amber." It looks like burnished wood. In the sun, it fairly well gleams. You can pet it like a cat, or a puppy, and it is soft and smooth.

Now that I’ve ‘fessed up about my weakness, I should confess this, too: I was trained as an art historian. This means I like looking at stuff—especially good-looking, well-made stuff produced by people who care enough about their craft to sweat the details. It’s hardwired into me now, and there’s no getting around it. So while part of me is screaming about fit, and ride, and function, the art historian in me just wants to look, and touch, and admire. (OK, and nitpick, but that’s a story for a different day.)

It also means I’m not an engineer, so the subtleties of formulas and diagrams, metallurgy and tubing, usually part my hair on the way by. I rely on my eyes, and as much research as I can absorb, to get me where I need to go. I like to think these tools make me immune to fads and a desire for the Next Big Thing even as I harbor lust in my heart for beautiful, finely crafted bikes and components. At least I hope that’s the way it works.

The Kestrel men told me they’d take a look at my bike if I brought it by on Saturday. I did. It was a different time of day, and now that amber was truly glowing in the sun. My good friend and training partner, Kathy, and I just gaped at it like idiots. My husband is made of tougher stuff. Did I mention that this bike was fitted with a Chris King headset in a golden yellow color? And that somehow that made the whole package even better?

My usual two-step failed me, and now I’m dreaming about this bike. Can’t get it out of my mind. Now, I already ride a bike well beyond my means through sheer, happy luck. I won a bike at a post-race raffle; it didn’t fit me; I swapped all the (very nice) components off of it and bought a Kestrel frame after test rides of all sorts. So here I am, wanting to push my luck. Thinking about a new bike fund, all sorts of things.

I laugh at myself and then think, perhaps it really is a sickness.

It is interesting to note that I may be genetically predisposed to this. My father had a thing for cars—Porsches, Jaguars, and the like—in his younger days. Perhaps I am actually a victim. These things run in families; it’s not my fault my genes are betraying me. And a nice bike is a lot cheaper than even a beat-up Porsche. Isn’t it?

There are others like me, I know, but some of you are reading this and thinking me shallow in the extreme, or perhaps just really good at rationalization. It’s the engine, and all that. And you’re right, to a point.

But here’s the thing. Riding a bike seems to me to be not just about strength and speed and power, but also, elementally, about joy—being out in the world moving along under your own power, pavement slipping by beneath you, perhaps the laughter of a friend riding alongside.

It’s also about art, and engineering, and how a gifted bike-builder can make something so very functional also look beautiful.

In my heart of hearts, I think a bike should light up your soul even as it helps you go fast. Because, let’s face it, someday you won’t be able to go so fast—but a beautiful, well-made bike can lift your spirits for a long time.

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