Scott Martin

Remember your first serious boyfriend or girlfriend? I do. Her name was Danielle. No, Ellen. Anyway, her eyes were the prettiest shade of brown, blue or possibly green. And her hair was so very, um, hairy.

How about your first serious bike? Mine was a brown Raleigh with Sturmey-Archer 3-speed gearing, leather Brooks saddle, black-and-silver fenders with front mud flap, and little oil ports in the hubs that I topped off every Saturday after her weekly washing. I mean, its weekly washing.

My second bike was an electric-blue Claud Butler Electron with drop handlebar, brazed-on mount for a headlight on the fork, center-pull brakes and 5-speed Campagnolo Valentino rear derailleur, probably the worst modern derailleur ever but the first Campy part I owned.

My second girlfriend became my wife. Let’s just say this was the Campy Valentino of marriages. Both are now discontinued.

After a lengthy break from relationships (post-divorce emotional meltdown) and bicycle-buying (post-divorce financial meltdown), I gradually resumed both.

My next bike was a sleek Cannondale Black Lightning with beer-can sized aluminum tubing and Shimano downtube index shifters, followed by a curvy, fire-engine-red carbon Kestrel and then a willowy, battleship-gray titanium Litespeed.

My dating attempts during that time included the Bicycle Hater (“my ex was one of those cyclist people”), the crazy Bulgarian (“So, how much vodka can you drink?”), and the woman who never removed her sunglasses, ball cap and hooded sweatshirt, whom I called the Unabomber (but not to her face).

Now I have a great new bike and girlfriend. And a new attitude. For example, I know what color her eyes are. They match my handlebar tape.

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