Back about six or seven years ago, back when I was just starting to get serious about this thing called cycling, I returned from a somewhat prolonged ride, later than the prescribed time. As I carefully put away my bike in its honored place next to the front door, my body covered with a combination of dripping sweat and road grit, maintaining that silly self-satisfied grin that newbie cyclists always have, my wife remarked through clenched teeth, "I think that you love that bike more than you love me!" Hmmm...I thought, is such a thing even remotely possible? Could I "love" my bike, a mere machine, a collection of metal, plastic, rubber and grease? Not to wax too philosophical, but it didn't seem very likely.
As time went on this subject faded from my consciousness, other things in my life displaced such idle contemplation. My marriage went on the rocks and my life became in some ways a very unpleasant thing to behold. I found myself escaping to the comfort of my regular solitary evening bike rides, where alone with my thoughts I could extricate the meaning of the world and my existence in it unfettered by the confusion of everyday trappings. With the riding and the thinking came new clarity and an awareness emerged in my emotional state that probably would never have surfaced otherwise. My bike, for all its metal and paint, had saved me thousands of dollars in therapy. And it never asked anything in return but a few minutes of attention on an irregular and infrequent basis to keep it going. My bike became my counselor and ...a silent friend. I never actually spoke to it, but it heard my whispers, and the wind, the sun, the sky and the moon came to talk to me. The lights along a city street provided a clear path, a sidewalk showed the way. Wherever there was a mile of previously untrod path, paved or unpaved, in Gainesville, I found a modicum of relief from the pain and mediocrity of my average day.
So once again I found myself asking, "Can I love a machine?"
Honestly, I still don't know the real answer to that question. But I can tell you that I think of my bike as a friend, something that will listen to my problems with sympathy, ...absent of reproach or reprimand. When I look at it today all I feel is positive, happy emotion. Even at the rare moment it demands some replacement parts, these things seem trivial compared to the benefit the bike has given me. These tiny gifts are a small return to my bike for the benefit and joy of having such a true friend.
But do I love my bike? ......I don't know, but I will share this thought.
My bike still rests in its place of honor by the living room door, in the wooden stand that I cut and stained for it so long ago. Regularly I wipe it down removing the dirt and grease from places where these things shouldn't be. I make an adjustment here and there. I stare at the beauty of its form. On the wall above the bike are mementoes of our good times together, now part of my cherished memories. I suspect that we will always be friends.
Oh..., and the wife, well.... she's long gone now.
Following winds, my friends.
Rob Wilt