It’s official. I’ve taken pictures, and have offered the Giant up for sale. I’m not asking much, probably way too little in fact, but in resisting the urge to be a pack rat, and in the spirit of recent events, it’s time to clean house, even of those things near and dear to us. Not to sound like a sentimental dolt about a bicycle, but I’m going to wax sentimental and doltish about a bicycle for a bit, so bear with me.

In this case, it’s the first bike I ever bought on my own with my own money. Ok, it was Mom and Dad’s money, but I was away at college out from under their immediate supervision. I made what I consider, in hindsight, a mature and responsible decision to purchase a bicycle for transportation and exercise, even opting for a lower end model, rather than the far flashier, but more expensive and alluring models. I could have bought posters, or booze, or food, or any number of other aesthetic, transient and ultimately useless things that college students away for the first time typically collect (note, I don’t include role-playing supplies, music, or computer games :). Instead, I chose a mode of transportation that was far cheaper, more efficient and more than adequate for my needs. I went practical. I thought ahead. I’m proud of myself.

That decision led to many years of service from a faithful and reliable friend. In the eyes of any one else, it’s just another bike. A Cro-moly frame populated with low end Shimano parts. Every spot of chipped paint and roughed up brake covers is a memory…

• This chip is from moving from my first apartment to my first rented house.
• That tear in the brake cover is from the spill I took turning around on a hill to talk to a friend. I ripped something in my shoulder, and to this day I can’t play racquetball because of it.
• Shiny and new beneath me the day I rode it out of Rick’s Bike Shop. All sleek lines and bright red.
• Spills in the rain trying to corner too fast.
• Following cars into parking lots to get their license plate and call it in after they nearly right-hooked me.
• Riding 20 miles out to Clinton Lake and back, thinking that was a fantastically long haul.
• Platform pedals with toe clips, and never once thinking about a helmet.
• Watching fully geared up cyclists running hill reps up to Clinton Lake dam and back over and over again, happy in my tennis shoes and jean shorts.
• Arriving to work in the freezing cold, my long hair frozen in icy ringlets and my bike stuck outside u-locked to the bike rack.
• Arriving home after work, my hands so cold the coldest tap water felt hot.
• Making it up the 14th St. hill onto campus for the first time, my lungs burning and my heart pounding, both from the effort and an overwhelming sense of first-accomplishment pride.
• Thinking I was surely going to die when, after two years of being stuck in a corner, she took me out on a quick two mile errand to get my car in the 90°F heat.
• Getting her out again after years, and loving that she still just worked.

To you, those are pictures of a red bike. To me, they’re an old friend that I’m finding increasingly difficult to let go.