It was just a bike. That's what I keep telling myself.
Tonight it's late, I'm walking around the house checking doors and turning off lights, and walk out into the garage where two of the doors are still open. I close the doors, glance at the wall where my road bike hangs, glance at it again, and glance once more. It's gone!
I look around wildly like it would be anywhere else, but no; it's gone. Someone has taken my trusty much beloved road bike, on which I have ridden so many miles. Take a deep breath. It was just a bike.
No ride tomorrow, I guess, now what do I do? As it happened I have ordered a new bike but it won't be here for three more weeks, and there will be a shakedown period after that. I was planning to continue using my old bike for training. And of course I'm riding the Furnace Creek 508 in October, on the new bike, but was counting on having the old one as a backup, both in case of mechanical trouble and for mental peace of mind. Oh well.
With all the practical issues like having a bike for training and having a backup for the 508, my sense of loss is much deeper. I've had this bike for ten years, and probably put 50,000 miles on it. I've spent countless hours riding, thinking, training, and living on that bike... it had a near death experience but recovered, and just recently we rode the Son of Death Ride together. The bike was covered with stickers commemorating all the "ultra" rides we did together. But I still have those memories. It was just a bike.
I'm not sure what to think yet, or what to do. I'm staggered.
It was ... just a bike.