I HAD COME TO THINK I WOULD NEVER ride the old bike again. But now, the afternoon before a gran fondo, I pulled it from the basement. It looked elegant, if a bit battered, displaying the classically strict triangular proportions of a racing bike from the era preceding carbon, and ready to spin as fast as a proud relic could. Even its most striking feature, its paint job, remained undimmed by time—bold, glossy, and piquant as ever.
The bike had been leaning against a wall, idle, for more than a year, since the day I’d brought home its replacement. My new bike was intended to formalize my long-term relationship with riding. It was light, stiff, fully carbon, decked out in high-end components and molded in swooping, space-age, ergonomic lines. It…