Oregon Cycling Magazine

by Ellee Thalheimer

The vinyl, fresh-out-of-the-package smell of bike shop wafted in my face as I strode in. I halted suddenly, vaguely hearing the salesperson ask me if I needed help. Turning on my heels, I saw him for the first time. His titanium was sparkly but classy, iridescent and rich, with embossed flames licking the top tube. I immediately knew he was my size. With a tweak of the seat post and an angled stem, he would be perfect. The Campagnolo gearing was slick. The compact Chorus meant I could no longer lean on a granny gear, but sometimes a woman needs a challenge.

“A test ride?” The salesperson asked.

“Sure.”

My palms sweat as I gripped his handlebars for the first time. The click click click of his gearing voiced soft consent as I rolled him to the street. It was a smooth journey around the block… and around and around. I named him Thor and took him home. At first, I rode him everywhere: two blocks to the store, to business meetings, on my weekly run up Mount Tabor. I would usually wear cycling apparel that matched him or accentuated the glint of his titanium. At this, my commuter bike scowled ruefully from his dusty corner of the garage. But his steely stare left me unscathed. When one first gets a bike, the initial affinity is shameless.

Eventually, my enthusiasm calmed, and Thor is now a comforting constant in my day-to-day. We ride at random times during the week, but always have Saturdays together. On Saturdays, when the day just begins to creep onto the horizon, I slip quietly out of bed so as not to wake my boyfriend, boil water for tea, and prepare Thor for the ride. When all is ready, we like to relax for a half hour before the ride to enjoy the morning as it spreads layers across the sky. With tea in hand, I lazily contemplate our route and listen to the steady snores from the other room.

I look forward to our Saturdays. While my weeks have their share of fabulous moments, they also have a build up of pressure, time constraint, people unloading insecurities, difficult communication, and tidings of an unsavory war. Thor has no judgement on me. He doesn’t want a faster rider or one with more finesse. He fits me exactly. His sturdy frame holds me up, a tacit encouragement to release the unnecessary. Over hills and valleys, we collaborate a fine speed, and when I put out extreme effort, he congratulates me with a serene descent. Sometimes he takes extra special care of me on the long bumpy downhills.

That’s not to say that I don’t get my chammies in a bunch when Thor’s derailleur needs adjustment and his chain keeps coming off or that I don’t want to throw his wheel over a cliff when it’s the third flat on a 40 mile ride. At these points, it would be easy to say, “Stupid, freaking bike. This bike is freaking stupid.”

But instead I choose to roll up my sleeves, get my mechanic on, forgive myself for the infrequency of maintenance checks, and chalk the rest up to bad luck. After all, the way he performs can be a reflection of me. I love our perfect symbiotic relationship. It puts some others to shame, quite frankly.

So what if he’s an inanimate object which I’ve consequently named Thor? So what if I he can be melted down and made into a coffee table? Does it really matter if needs are being met? I think not. A Thor for everyone, I say, and the world would take one step closer to peace.

Possibly Related

• September 2007: A cool old bike comes back to life
• September 2008: Track racing at its best: the Alpenrose Velodrome Challenge
• May 2007: Flats: beyond the simple repair
• April 2008: Getting paid to ride: the guided tour
• January 2008: Journey to the center of the world