Letter to My Rockhopper

Last night my little brother came over and claimed my old Rockhopper as his own. After purchasing the Cobia, I really didn't have a need for the Rockhopper and, while it isn't in fantastic shape, it is still ridable.

Last week I swapped out some of the components that I wanted to keep, including seat, pedals, and other accessories, replacing them with new stuff from the Cobia. After I got it all fixed up, I took it out for a little spin. It was a short ride but the entire time I thought about all the fun times I had on that old bike. It's sad, in a way, to give up something that has been such a part of my life.

So, in the spirit of Jill Homer, I write you, beloved Rockhopper, a farewell letter.

Dear Rockhopper -

It was in the Spring of 1995 that I first laid eyes on you. Back then you were a lovely powder blue sitting on the floor of the Specialized dealer in Ephraim Utah. Having a front shock was such a gloriously indulgent idea that I almost felt guilty bottoming out your 60mm of elastomer goodness during our test rides.

As I am wont to do, I visited you often. I became obsessed. I swiped copies of the 1995 Specialized catalog from the dealer to pine after you until I could scrape up enough cash to purchase you. Eight-hundred dollars and change is an enormous amount of cash for a poor Snow College freshman to save. So to show the dealer that I was serious about my purchase and not just coming around for free test rides, I gave a few hundred here and a few hundred there to the dealer until, at last, I could bring you home.

I couldn't have been happier with you. You rode like a thorough-bred, flew like a bird, and climbed like a mountain goat. Others didn't share my enthusiasm and couldn't see how I justified my purchase. In a letter I received from my older brother after I shared with him the news of the purchase, he famously quipped, "An $800 bike!?!? Does it come with rockets?"

Nope, but I still have the letter, Mr. $1100 HKEK.

Our first real trail ride was in Log Canyon and it was there that I realized that my riding skills were sorely lacking. My efforts in developing them while riding my Mt Tek steed were in need of some serious help. It's nice to think that we never once endo'd while riding.

During that first year I took you on many-a-trail. Green Dirt, or Mill Road, being an oft-traveled favorite.

You took me on my first race where I lost. Painfully. But I still enjoyed the ride. I never raced again.

For two years, while I was in Germany, I stupidly hung you by your top tube in the attic. While there I received a letter that sent me into panic. It read, in part, "...Dad's fine after his fall. I guess he just wasn't used to riding your bike." Later I found that it was a joke at my expense and you were fine, still hanging in the attic. I was relieved, but only after the joke was explained a month later.

The two years spent in alternating extreme heat and extreme cold took a toll on your top tube and when I returned home I noticed you'd developed a crack. The subsequent swap-out of components to a new, and frankly uglier, 1998 frame lead to the question: Do old components on a new frame constitute a new bike or was it still the same old Rockhopper I've come to know and love? The latter tends to give me more comfort. For years I missed your beautiful powder-blue frame.

After Germany we rode many miles. I often found myself haunting the old Bonneville Shoreline trail. While it pales in comparison to Green Dirt in both rideability and accessibility, we made do.

As life changed, I turned to you less for fun and more for utility. Your sad whitewall tires began to show some serious wear and were soon replaced with a new pair of hybrids gave you less roll-resistance for the many, many hours we spent commuting but also allowed for some fun off road when time permitted.

Commuting began first to Winger's where I could eat as much as I wanted and never gain any weight, thanks to you. Later to UVSC as I worked toward my schooling. I bought you racks, panniers, and a more comfortable saddle for yet another commute—this time to a horrible job. One thing that I really appreciated about you was that after a long day of work dealing with a ridiculously stupid company and bosses, we could take a 10 mile ride home to blow off some steam. It was a liberating experience. It was therapeutic. It was good for me.

Slowly, commuting with you became less and less feasible; you began long stints hanging upside down from the garage ceiling—this time from your tires rather than your frame. I had less and less time to ride and a job that was an impossible 50 miles away instead of a doable 10.

A few years went by with very little riding.

Slowly, life began to stabilize and a renewed desire to get out and ride began creep in. After a conversation with my older brother about us finally training for our long-time dream of biking across Colorado, I realized that you, my beloved twelve year-old bike, wouldn't be able to make the trip. Though your frame is in fine shape, your once plush shocks are gone - victims of their own outdated technology, your drive-train has seen better days and often will gobble up chains if cranked too hard. In short, my friend, I'm afraid you're a bit long in the tooth. I need to put you out to pasture. You won't be making this ride.

So, I'm passing you onto my little brother. He's getting ready to start college. He needs a good commuting bike. He needs something he can ride and blow off some steam. And, every once in a while, he'll need to hit a trail or two and have a little fun. (Please make sure he wears a helmet—we may have never endo'd, but that's no guarantee for him!)

Last night, as he came by to pick you up, all shiny and clean from your recent tune-up and wash. He said you looked great. We snapped a few photos, commented on our good times together, and watched you walk out of my life forever.

Good luck, old buddy -

Andrew