Memories and Beausage

If it hasn't been made apparent from reading here yet, my Rivendell Sam Hillborne has been my go-to bike for some time now. It's the bike that has managed to survive my seemingly constant-revolving set of bicycles. There is something about this bike that has kept me attached. Whether that is the ease of use, familiarity, or some other yet-to-be-personally-acknowledged component to the bike, I'm not always certain.

I think the view from beneath the Hillborne may be better than what I get to see riding it.

In reality, I believe the initial investment was the motivation to continue to toil over getting this bike to work. No one wants to spend what feels like a small fortune, only to sell it off and start again. Goodness knows it's happened with even costlier bicycles in the fold though.

Today, even if I wanted to sell the Hillborne I would be quite reluctant to do so as it is no longer made in a size that would fit my height and proportions. I acknowledge that even Riv's former smallest size is still a bit large for me, but somehow over the years, we - the bike and I - have come to understand each other and rarely (unless taking it on a truly extended trip) do I take issue with it.

Over the last several months, I have not ridden this bike as much as I have in the past. It's had some issues that needed to be resolved and although certainly still rideable, I found myself choosing other bikes over this one. I told myself that over winter we would dismantle and reassemble the Hillborne in order to get all the minor issues resolved (plus, it was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning), but it always seemed to take a back seat, at least until one warmer weekend recently.

Having the bike dismantled brought back memories of putting it together for the first time (well, watching Sam and doing my best to offer assistance as needed). I remembered how excited I was to get this bike, having believed it was something we could never really afford to buy. It was an expenditure that I felt guilty about for years afterward, but knowing how much use has come from this bike, it's reached a point today that the cost seems a trivial detail -- which is not to diminish the amount spent by any means, but rather that I've just come to accept that the bike has earned its keep.

As the frame was hanging from our bike stand in its (mostly) disassembled state I ran my fingers over the paint. I have complained for some time about the ridiculously easy-to-chip paint, but as I stood moving my hands over the frame, I knew that each of the little pits of missing paint had a story. I joked at one point that simply breathing too hard near the frame would remove paint (which was only a very slight exaggeration), but I know where and how almost every one of the blemishes occurred.

I couldn't help but smile remembering summer bike valet duty a few years back and having another valet crew member knock the Hillborne over (accidentally, of course), resulting in what I refer to as twin chips on the frame. I recall Sam being livid about the incident, as well as my attempts to reassure him that everything would be fine. It was not the first chip on the frame, and it would not be the last. I wasn't pleased about having my bike knocked over, particularly as I was still highly protective of it, but I knew it wasn't the end of the world.

Then there was the time I tipped the bike over all on my own. I was attempting to side step the rear tire when instead I kicked it, sending the bike into a rocking fit. As I attempted to catch it from falling, I missed entirely and watched in slow motion as the bars escaped my grasp and the bike went to the ground. It was a strangely soft landing, catching on the same foot that had set the whole act in motion, but still resulted in a paint chip on the rear of the frame.

There are many other tales that illustrate the minor imperfections that exist today on the bike. Although the instances tore me up inside initially, it's easier today to view these as our story together - the tales that created our relationship. It is just a bike after all, and it could easily have been about any other; but there are moments together, pockets of time, that I share uniquely with this bicycle. The occasions are not necessarily about this specific bicycle, yet they are intertwined with it.

Close up, the damage is apparent, but from a distance the frame still appears shiny and new - at least when it's clean (a comparison that could be made to myself, no doubt). There is cable rub on the top tube that simply doesn't erase with a cleaning any longer, and spots where the formerly used fenders rubbed indentations on the interior side of the chainstays, just to name a couple flaws that have developed over the years.

Because I haven't shared a similar duration of time with other bikes I ride, we don't have the same quantity of stories - but we're getting there. The VO Campeur and I, for instance, find our relationship to be more than just passing ships in the night, having spent (hard as it is to believe) a year riding together now. That bike is starting to show its own small signs of beausage and we share stories like this one of getting caught in an onslaught of hail too. In time, I have no doubt that I'll have a very similar attachment to the Campeur.

As often as bikes seem to leave my grasp, I freely admit that I am decidedly more content to have those that stick around. There's a level of comfort that develops over time and through use that isn't quite the same on a new ride. Oh, I do love the invigoration and discovery of a new bike, but it's a different feeling to one of familiarity.

I know that there will likely always be trade-outs and additions taking place over the years with the bicycle herd, but to find a bike that just works - even when it isn't perfect on paper - is something special, and having the opportunity to share the scars and marks of the roads traveled makes for a beautiful history together.

The Hillborne is put back together now, cleaned up - for the most part - sporting some new parts and pieces that were worn from use. Other bits remain from its former iteration as well, exposing snippets of our travels and time together, badges of sorts that illustrate this machine has been loved and used, but never unappreciated. The paint imperfections could disappear with a fairly easy trip to a paint shop, but we haven't reached that point in our relationship quite yet. Those chips are telling our story and I'm not ready to let go of the visual reminders of our adventures together.

Do you prefer to leave imperfections from wear on your bicycle, or do you clean/paint/resolve them right away? What stories have you shared with your favorite bicycle? Do they keep you attached to the bike itself, or do you think the stories would be there regardless of the specific bicycle?