The boy stares at me for a moment, probably waiting to see if I'm joking.
'What if the dogs had already run out?' He asks finally.
'Then I'd get the box with all of our wedding stuff in it.'
'Hmm...' He scratches his small, triangular chin for a moment. 'I thought you'd definitely rescue your bike.'
I would, I think to myself. But only if there was time.
'So you'd just let it burn?'
It is dinner time and, as always, we are fielding one of the boy's 'what if' questions. Tonight is the classic what three things would you rescue from the house in a fire. I sneak a glance at my bike, sitting as it does in the dining room (much to the constant but unspoken annoyance of my wife) and ponder my strange, emotive realtionship with it.
'It would make me sad,' I concede. 'But there are other bikes. There's only one of you guys.'
I love my bike. I like looking at it and frequently enjoy riding it. It is, in its current form, a labour of love, a composite of carefully tailored upgrades and the end result of my obsession (and some very tight budgeting). It is very nearly art and I am quite certain that it will find itself mounted on a wall somewhere in my future when my legs or back finally give out.
The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.
I ride a Bianchi frame, an Intenso in the traditional celeste livery. It sports a nice pair of Reynolds Assault SL carbon wheels with a solid but not over the top 41mm depth (a concession to the perpetual winds that hammer anyone foolish enough to cycle on the coast). It has some lovely aero bars and surprisingly comfortable Fizik saddle. One day, it will have a high end group set but the house currently requires the kind of work that makes that a pipe dream. It is not top of the line. It is a long way from entry level. It is a mish mash of what suits my riding style and needs rather than a slavish assemblege of the newest products and I love it. I love it aesthetically and I love the feel of it when I ride.
Through various iterations, this bike and I have covered thousands of miles, claimed more finishers medals that I can currently remember, won and lost KOM's and made countless late night dashes to the shop to buy rum before it closes. We have liked each other, hated each other and, sometimes, stoically ignored one another.
Having this sort of a relationship with an inanimate object may seem peculiar to anyone who doesn't ride. Anyone who does ride knows that a bike is far from inanimate. It is alive and in constant flux. It is an object designed to move, preferably at high speeds. It has to to stay upright. It needs you to keep up. It needs to be looked after, worked on and respected.
The rewards for this are varied. Some, like pert buttocks, a lack of middle aged spread and a distinct set of tan lines, are obvious. Others are more subtle but quite profound. I have spent some fantastic times with my son on bikes. I have been welcomed across finish lines by my wife holding a bag of Indian food, beers and actual pride in my achievement. I have seen parts of the world (including the town where I live) that I would never have ventured into were it not for my bike. I have seen my stress levels and quick temper vanish as a result of riding. I have come to learn that half of the ride is for me and my bike, half is all about getting home to my family. I have actually become a better father, husband and person thanks to my realtionship with my bike. It has taught me to value my time, my physical well being, my surroundings and those around me who quietly strive to keep me moving, upright, worked on and respected.
So, yes. My bike is more than a bike. It is a part of my life that is irreplaceable to me, ironically because it has lead me to fully understand the other things around me that are even more irreplaceable.
The boy scratches his chin for a moment longer before turning his attention back to his dinner.
'I still can't believe you'd let it burn'. He says absently.
I look for a moment at his small chin as he works at a mouthful of pasta, then at my wife as she studiously avoids becoming embroiled in the discussion but descreetly touches my hand with her little finger in that way that I love.
'It's what it would want'. I tell him.
The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.
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