I don’t particularly like my bicycle, but I don’t particularly dislike it either. It’s made of metal, which I like, but in a foreign (to me) country, which I don’t like. It does all the things it is supposed to, like roll forward and lean easily through turns, but it is a little on the aggressive side for someone who doesn’t race. I look at other bikes regularly, but I never find the right one to replace this one. So, each morning, I check the tires and just go. Occasionally, I’ll be sitting near it, and I’ll catch it a certain way in the light and I’ll see the spot on the top tube just behind the stem, where the matte finish has been worn glossy. It’s the spot where I rest my left thigh across the tube, when I am stopped with my left foot still clipped in. It’s the spot where I have waited for thousands of stoplights, a few friends and a few strangers too. It’s the spot where I have drank shots of espresso or whiskey and swigs of plain, old water. It’s the spot where I have eaten homemade waffles, tacos, gels, bars and a handful of berries. It’s the spot where I have watched the sun rise, and the sun set. It’s the spot where I took a photo of Robbs Gulch, because that’s my dad’s name and you never see it spelled that way. It’s the spot where I have offered a “you got this!” to another rider who needed it, or been asked, “you good?!” because I needed it. It’s the spot where I have proclaimed, “fuck this road,” or “fuck, this road,” or even “fuck this, road.” It’s the spot where I have listened to the opening bass lines of Coltrane’s A Love Supreme countless times. I see that spot, just that certain way in the light, and think, I can ride this one for just a little longer.