I don't think bikes are sacred. But I know biking is.
Maybe this sounds like sacrilege coming from a bike guy. But you've gotta remember, bikes to me are just a means to an end. I spent 1974 ripping apart cruisers because I thought it would be fun to propel myself and my friends down mountains. It was fun, too, but many a bike met a strange and gruesome fate in the process.
Stuff, in and of itself, just doesn't mean much to me. Bikes included. Really, what are they? Metal and rubber? Joints and lubes? Come on. That thing is just one small ingredient in the big, big recipe called riding. It's almost a question of priorities; if you're too madly in love with a bike, maybe you're losing track of what really matters.
If I got my hands on Jimi Hendrix's guitar, you know what I'd do? Play it. Lick it. Sleep with it. Try to ride whatever wave Jimi left in it, or at least get it to tell me some secrets. Maybe I'd even set it on fire, just like he did.
Which gets me to my point. There's one way for a bike to have a soul. The rider has to put it there.
If I put my soul in Gary Fisher bikes, there wouldn't be room for yours.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: The best bike is one that disappears when you ride it. I live for the moments when the bike just blots itself out, and every little element is singing the same note - me, the bike, the trail, the sky, the dirt. Yes, yes, yes.
Maybe what I'm trying to say is this: ride more.
Get on a bike. Fall off a bike. Leave something of yourself in it.
Does a bike have a soul? Only if you do.
Ride by the shop. We'd be happy to show you our Fishers. Take one for a test ride and see if it disappears.
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