The Bike That Got Away
Every cyclist has that bike—the one you wish you hadn’t sold, gave to a friend, or otherwise let go of. It’s not just about the bike itself but the time and place in your life it represents. Maybe it was your first touring rig, your first custom build, or the bike you commuted on during a formative stage of your life. Whatever the case, these bikes have a way of lodging themselves in our memories, long after they’re gone.
For me, it’s my old Schwinn Super Le Tour. It was the first bike I did any significant touring on - especially the Assateague Trip where Adrian and I got custom boardwalk t-shirts to commemorate the journey.
I’ll admit I went all-in on nerding out over the parts - building custom wheels with a dynamo hub, swapping in Suntour Cyclone group with a half-step 52/46 double, various racks, elkhide wraps, and fenders. It had a cockpit I dialed in after countless adjustments, a pannier setup that made me feel ready to tackle any road, and a beautiful appearance. That bike taught me about gear ratios, pannier balance, and the joy of a long tour filled with self-sufficiency.
At the time, I had to let it go. Life circumstances nudged me toward selling it, and I told myself I could always replace it someday. But bikes aren’t just metal and rubber—they carry stories. The Super Le Tour wasn’t just a bike; it was that bike. It represented a time in my life when I was discovering what I loved about cycling: the sense of freedom, the connection to the road and landscape, and the satisfaction of solving mechanical puzzles on the fly. Letting it go felt practical then, but in hindsight, it’s the bike I wish I had kept.
Why do we let go of these bikes? Maybe we needed the money or were making room for a new build. Perhaps it was the lure of something lighter, faster, or shinier. Or maybe we didn’t realize how attached we were until it was gone. Sometimes it’s practical; other times, it’s a simple matter of not knowing how much we’d miss them. Whatever the reason, it’s often only in hindsight that the regret sets in.
I sometimes wonder where the Super Le Tour is now. Is it still rolling under someone else’s care? Is it leaning against a shed wall, waiting to be rediscovered? The thought of it being neglected stings a bit, but I like to imagine it’s out there, doing what it does best: carrying someone else through their own adventures.
If you’re reading this and thinking about your bike that got away, take heart. Maybe it’s a chance to rekindle the memories or find another bike to create new ones. Because every bike has the potential to become the next Super Le Tour—a new story waiting to unfold. Sometimes, we even get lucky and find our old bikes again, or we come across a similar model and make it our own. Either way, the story continues.
What was your bike that got away? Was it a childhood BMX that saw countless jumps off makeshift ramps? A randonneuring bike that carried you through brevet after brevet? Or maybe it was a quirky garage sale find that turned into an unexpected favorite. Share your stories in the comments. Who knows? Your tale might inspire someone to hold onto their own bike a little tighter.
I had a Ciocc 12.5 COM made from this beautiful hexagonal Deddaciai (sp?) tubing. The carbon fork was cracked so I used a chrome fork from SomaFab. Campy veloce groupset, Mavic wheels. It clashed too much with a Dale Saso custom that I had made a few years earlier that was simply much faster, so I sold it. But man that bike was pretty fun and was the prettiest bike I owned.
The one that I regret selling was probably the craziest, and that was a Surly Big Fat Dummy. It was ridiculous and people would step aside when they heard me coming. Yes, on pavement with those knobby, fat tires and all that weight, you could hear me coming, no need for a bell on that thing. But, now that I’m often riding a cargo bike, I think of all the places I could get to with the dog and whatever gear I want to carry.
Back in 1974, when I was just 12 years old, I had my eye on a bike at the local shop. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I didn’t have much money. I was really into cycling, and while most of my friends were still riding “Stingray” style bikes or clunky 40-pound “10-speeds” from department and hardware stores, I wanted something different—something light, fast, and European. I wanted a real bike.
After months of saving, I finally had enough money and went down to the shop, ready to make my purchase. The bike I had been eyeing cost $145—affordable, yet a big investment for a 12-year-old. But the salesman had other plans. With a knowing smile, he led me past the main showroom and into a separate room at the back of the shop—the reparto corse. This was the shop’s high-end section, filled with sleek frames and glass cases brimming with gleaming Campagnolo components. I used to wander through that room like a kid in a candy store, practically drooling over everything, even though I knew I could never afford anything in there.
To my surprise, just inside the doorway stood three beautiful Bottecchia bikes—one white, one blue, and one gold. These weren’t top-tier racing machines, but they were a definite step up from the entry-level bikes in the main showroom. As the Bottecchia distributor for the Southeast U.S., the shop had ordered them with custom features that made them unique. My eyes locked onto the blue one—a deep, metallic shade called Bottecchia Blue. It had chrome socks and lugs, alloy handlebars, rims, chainrings, and Campagnolo hubs. It was the coolest bike I had ever seen, and I knew I had to have it.
There was just one problem—it cost $175, and it was a couple of sizes too big for me. But the salesman convinced me I’d grow into it, and that was all the encouragement I needed.
I loved that bike. I did grow into it, and I rode it for years. But in 1994, disaster struck. I was riding down the road when a tow truck made a sudden right turn and took me out. I walked away with a broken collarbone, but my beloved Bottecchia was beyond repair. I had to throw it out, and it broke my heart. I searched for another one, but by then, no shops carried Bottecchia anymore. The only frames I could find in magazines were high-end and way out of my budget.
Years later, I stumbled across a Bottecchia on eBay—an even better model—but I always wished I still had that old bike. One day, I decided to recreate it. Since my original had been a customized order from the factory, finding an exact match was impossible, even in the collector’s market. Instead, I found an old blue Bottecchia Special, the closest I could get, and set out to track down the parts I needed.
The toughest pieces to find were the crankset and rims. My original bike had an Ofmega cottered crankset with a five-arm spider and alloy chainrings. I found a picture of the exact model on an old Bianchi, but I could never track down the actual crankset, so I settled for a slightly different version. The rims were even trickier—I needed Fiamme Yellow Label clinchers. After an exhaustive search, I finally found a NOS set in 700C, which was perfect, even though my originals had been 27”. I was more than happy to make the switch.
After piecing everything together, I had my old bike back—well, almost. I built it as a fun around-town and bar-hopping bike, not for serious riding, but it still brought back all the memories.
In 1981 I built up a 26” Powerlite bmx cruiser into my first mountain bike. It was chrome. Super sweet. I gave it to a girlfriend and they were both lost. I really miss that bike
1985 Centurion Ironman. The RED one. Gorgeous bike, lots of little touches (chrome seat stay tips, hand lug lining). Generous tire room for ‘85. Later laced up a Shimano freehub to the original rear rim and ran it as 10 speed friction. Rode that bike everywhere. Foolishly sold it for reasons I can’t even remember.
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