Friday Query: The Myth of the Forever Bike

A considerable number of years ago I grew weary of the annual Christmas tree hunt - the expense, the decorating, the dry needle mess at the end, and went over to K-Mart and bought an artificial tree. It was a darn good looking tree, and even had little pine cones on it, was pre-strung with lights, and was mess-free. On New Years Day it broke down into sections which got stuffed into a handy storage bag, and put away in the garage where it took up considerable space for the next eleven months. Best of all, it only took three years before it had paid for itself. It was nearly perfect, I thought, the last tree I would ever need.

Four years later it was sold in a garage sale. Maybe it was a little less perfect than I thought - no forest-fresh-scent, and its space in the garage could be opened up and refilled with other stuff. Besides, things just were not the same without the traditional trip to the Christmas Tree lot (or Armstrong Garden Center). Turns out that one perfect tree to rule them all, to last a lifetime, was just a myth - changes in priorities, changing tastes and sensibilities, brought an end to that whole idea.

Bikes are kind of the same; some people are constantly searching for that one perfect bike, the one that can do it all, the last bike they will ever need, the bike so close to perfect as to be indistinguishable to all but the most critical eye. The myth of the perfect bike has been a part of cycling since, well, since the beginning of bicycling.

No matter how perfect we may believe any given bike may be at any given moment in time, it is inevitable that at some point in the future another will appear to shatter that perception of perfection. The old yellow Basso, for instance, is as good a forever road bike as I could expect; its steel frame will out-live me, its components are all modern wonders, and it is one smooth ride. In essence, if not also in practice, it has been a forever bike since it was purchased a way back in 1991. Yet as I look upon it now, the thin layer of dust upon its small diameter tubes is unmistakable. Its status in the hierarchy has been supplanted (for some time now) by another, ten years its junior, and even it (as I look upon various glossy images of the latest Diamante model) should feel insecure in its position. Likewise, the Hakkalugi, once I had finished building it up, was, and has been until now, sure to be the only gravel bike I could ever desire. Yet that Basso Palta in orange and black has me tingling all over.

Perfect bike indeed; the concept of perfection is just too fluid for that to be anything other than a complex myth. I have known people who would buy a new bike every year. That's crazy, but sooner or later most people become tempted. Make a guesstimate, an average if you've had more than one - how long does your perfect bike remain that way before you start looking for the next one?