Folks who say you can’t love inanimate objects are dead wrong. I’ve loved all seven of my bikes, beginning with my very first, a bright red Hawthorne that I received as a Christmas present when I was just four years old. That Hawthorne gave me my first taste of independence. When I pulled away from my father’s guiding hands and flew down the sidewalk with streamers flying from the white handlebar grips, I knew I was free. At last. The wind in my hair was a bonus.

I’m much older now, but I recapture this heady compound of unconstrained joy and unfettered autonomy whenever I plant my butt on the saddle. And then there’s the wonderful deliverance from the tyranny of gravity that comes every time I settle my feet on the pedals and roll away. Don’t get me wrong, though. Not all bikes are equal in my affections. No way! My Surly Long Haul Trucker is a bike like no other I’ve owned, more like a part of my body than a machine.

What explains this happy bondage? Well, fit is one reason. Petra—from Blue Peter, the flag flown by mariners to signal an imminent departure from port—fits me like a bespoke side-by-side, perfect in every dimension. And like a fine double gun, Petra is always on target. She doesn’t fight me when I want to carve a turn or make a fast descent in a gusty crosswind, even with a forty-pound load in her panniers, nor does her long-wheelbase steel frame flex unduly when I stand on the pedals to power up a steep grade. She also negotiates gravel roads with as much aplomb as any bike can, and she’s surprisingly fleet on the flats, even when kitted out with fenders, rack, and bar bag. She’s no racer, to be sure, but then I’m no racer either. And her 20-inch granny gear keeps me in the saddle and moving forward long after most of the local roadies have given up and turned back.

So ours is a very special relationship, Petra’s and mine. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And, yes, it is all about the bike.

 
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