My bike doesn’t have a name. In fact, none of my bikes ever have. Despite liking the idea, there’s never been the right feel”I’ve loved all my rides, but somehow naming them has never quite happened. If I were picking names though, I’d do what B.B. King does and have one name that passes to all my bikes, the way all his guitars are named Lucille, new or old. I do, though, come up with nicknames now and then. I call this one “the sled,” since its stealth-bomber style and abundance of carbon fiber make it look a little like a carbon bullet. It’s sexy, but in that production roadster way: It’s the Z3 of road bikes, if the Z3 were made in America.
It’s far from unique”at least my cross bike is a mishmash of components and is geared for Forest Park. Despite its generic nature, though, I’m quite fond of it, as it came to me by way of good fortune and hard riding. And it fits me like a glove. No other bike I’ve owned has been so dialed-in for overall fit and feel. So, when I finally go ask Sacha or Ira to hold a slot in the queue for me, I’ll be ready for something truly my own, but I’ll be bringing all the sled’s measurements with me.