Please Don't Call It A Quiver Killer
If I made a Tinder profile – which I don’t plan to – I’d have to disclose my love of probing questions right from the start. Doing otherwise would be unethical. I am fascinated by the human psyche, by words, and the ways the latter illuminate the former - often, by accident. Questions are the tool of the curious mind and to those with ears to hear, any answer draws a map of the responder’s inner land. For aptly phrased queries, even refusing a reply tells a tale.
When I’m not engaged in psycho-babble, riding my bike, petting my dog or asking people annoying questions, I work in marketing where I routinely find ways to assert my inquisitions.
A recent plot of that inner muse was a marketing feature you can find on these pages. Dubbed “Our Friends” it is a semi-regular feature in which I pepper friends in the cycling biz with questions about their lives, rides, preferences and histories. My favorite questions is the one bike dilemma.
“If you could only ride one bike for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
Any and every answer lends an all-access pass into the core of the bike rider before me. Take for example, Ira Ryan’s immediate offer of his cantilever equipped cross-bike – a simple machine for a not-so-simple man with far from simple bike riding abilities. His reply carries with it the obvious soggy-love of PNW cyclo-cross, needed clearance for fenders 11 ½ months out of the year, a certain proud, almost-ironic devotion to the less-than-modern and a stubborn, Flemish love of the hard path. The answer is simultaneously mid-west blue collar and Portland bike culture. It prioritizes longevity and versatility, and betrays immediately a preference for riding out the door. Having ridden plenty of miles with Ira, I also know it is a suitable reply for the elfish, feather-tainted bike dancing that typifies his head-turning riding style. This is to say, the answer tells us more than a little about the man behind the bike.
My all-time favorite reply came from Curtis Inglis of Retrotec/Inglis Cycles. He replied obstinately “I’m glad this is a hypothetical question, and I really do not enjoy having to think about it.” He remains the only responder to whom I felt a need to apologize for posing the question. Yet even his coy non-answer speaks volumes. It betrays a love of variation, a subtle refusal to comply and the vivid imagination necessary for the artist. He stepped into this hypothetical universe with both size 12 feet and clearly didn’t like the feel of it. A fair response to what would be a painful predicament for most of us if we really took the situation to heart.
My own take on the matter shares some sense of Ira’s practicality but none of Curtis’ stubbornness. It demonstrates my own history, brutish nature and willingness to suffer. The bikes that I first road to youthful freedom were hardtail mountain bikes and I’d ride the same off the map toward the end of my days if the situation demanded it.
Given the riding context in which we live, it is many a gravel biker that’ll claim those machines are quiver killers – the bike you “can do anything on.” To my ear, that claim suggests either god-like bike handing abilities or, more often, little interest in what I consider legitimate mountain biking. While a hardtail may not be suitable for some truly advanced trails, it will suffice for most I have the courage to ride. I can’t say the same of it’s drop-bar alternative. And while road riding in nearly all forms (of which gravel is a part) is undeniably slower on a mountain bike it is without doubt achievable.
Stopping at the category level however wouldn’t give the question the merit its due. What hardtail, after all are we talking about? The current world of bikes is rich in sub-categories and hardtail’s now run the gamut.
The intention of my selection wouldn’t be to hang-on for dear life down elevator shafts, nor is it to toe the line at xc races – though the latter is more likely than the former. No, my forever bike would need to be neutral in style and demeanor with enough grit for real trails and long days, but light and balanced to make it enjoyable to pedal on any surface. It needs clearance for proper tires. It should shoot for the middle of the road – making it all the more fun when skirting both white lines. While I haven’t been without at least one full-suspension bike in the shed for nearly two decades, I suppose my reply suggests preparation for hard times coming. My anxious, catastrophizing mind doesn’t find world demanding self powered of-road transportation far-fetched. A good hardtail is a classic, and while they may eventually show their age, they don’t outdate the way full suspension bikes do – seeming as they now have a shelf-life only slightly longer than cottage-cheese.
Two bikes from my past come to mind as influential players. The first modern hardtail I found my way to was a Pivot Les. Having converted whole-hog to full-squish as soon as I could afford it and only returning when I’d graduated to multiple mountain bikes (oh, the irony), it was the first rigid rear end I’d ridden in many years. This was enough years ago now that much of that bicycle’s geometry would seem unsuitable for flatbars and suspension today, but the ride quality sticks in my somatic memory. It wasn’t the lightest of race bikes but I can still close my eyes and feel it’s sure-footed grace and a grip which seemed to defy logic. Grip, as it turns out, makes bikes fast, and don’t mind admitting that a quick check confirms there’re still KOM’s on well-ridden trails across Montana owned by that bike and my then-skinny fire-breathing self. I sold it for bike-equity protection as it threatened to age out and regretted that decision for the entire life-span of its two mediocre predecessors.
I found love again some years later in a hand-me-down Kona Honzo CR I bought off Barry Wicks when the pandemic had put a halt to easy bike swaps. The geometry was, in typical Kona-fashion, years ahead of the times. A slack-for-then headtube angle and short chainstays were wed to a taut, nearly-jarring frame that let you know with every pedal stroke and rock drop that it was made to do the work. I remember Kona Product Manager Ian Schmitt’s claim that he wanted the Honzo to have “that Kona ride quality” which I’ve always interpreted as “tough as shit” – attributes I both appreciate and aspire to.
Returning to the question at hand, it is clear such an attribute would be indispensable. A broken carbon-fiber mountain bike would, after all, make an atrocious selection for a single bicycle to own. So I’d choose metal.
After some years of material experimentation and a small handful of hand-built rides, I’d just about devoted myself to steel. This owed equally to a preference for practicality and a blue-collar sensibility that brings an element of reverse shame for owning overly nice things – such as titanium. Then again, “the forever material” is a hard one to turn from as a choice of a “forever bike” and spending the better part of my adult life in the bike industry has led to friendships with talented builders if not great wealth. This is to say, I’ve found a taste for space-metal despite myself.
So where does this leave me? Riding off on a hardtail, clearly. And a nice one. Not a trail sled, but not quite a purpose-built race bike either. It’s gotta last, be fun, compliant yet tough, and thus – blue collar sensibility aside – made of Titanium. Lastly, given career-connections and my existence as a deeply relational human, the bike would be made for me by someone I appreciate and want to support. I’ll ride fancy carbon bikes when opportunity presents, and the engineering behind them is frankly incredible, but no amount of science and technology can replace the warm fuzzies that owning things made just for me by people I care about – or care about me – offers.
As for the psychological interpretation of the character this all displays, I leave that job to the reader. Somewhere between the bikes we ride and the people we ride them with lies all the magic that keeps us locked into orbit around our two-wheeled machines. Between them, there’s a hand with a torch, welding up the only home I’ve ever found to fit.
