By Alex Felesky

Biking is my passion and has been for many years, but doing it comes at a cost of a bike. I have battled mechanical issues and sacrificed many rides for this bike of mine. I have spent countless hours in my garage trying to get my bike to run again and to bring joy back to riding trails–it’s my pride and joy. This bike is one of my best friends, part of my family, part of me. It never fights with me and never talks back, but it does require a lot of attention. 

It  has seen well over 1000 miles. It’s seen me at my worst, when I’m bleeding and yelling in a bush out of sheer excruciating pain, and it’s also seen me at my best, at my happiest, at some of the proudest moments in my life, gliding through the forest, watching trees fly by and the leaves quiver and turn in the draft of me and my bike.

It’s when soaring through the air, spotting the landing and moving sideways through the air in a whip that I most appreciate my bike. I feel the adrenaline in the tips of my fingers, in my eyes and ears, and the rush or wave of adrenaline washes over me like a big, curling wave. The impact of landing puts my bike under extreme pressure, and when I hear a crack or a tweet like a rooster crying for help I worry. Sometimes I just want to crawl into a ball and wonder why I still ride this bike. Instantaneously, I know I am going to spend three gruesome and grueling hours fixing the drivetrain again; the thought in the back of my head tells me I should get a new bike, one that saves me countless hours every week, yet I know that I cannot give up on my bike now. It’s been my best friend for years, and I wouldn’t do it justice if I sold it. It’s almost like I made a vow or an oath to my bike that I would take care of it until it is no longer rideable. 

I ride this bike not because it’s the best, not because it has new technology, but because of its flaws and imperfections.