I've had serious love affairs with several road bikes and cheap flings with others.  A serial monogamist with those favored, I reminisce about the 90's era Nishiki Beta with Spin wheels; the piss yellow anodized  aluminum Giant TCR; a Colnago Dream Reflex with an exquisite carbon rear end; the supple steel Ritchey Breakaway portable; and the fully stacked SRAM Felt Z-25. 

I have my toss-abouts, as well.  The expensive carnage pile of my torridly brief cycling affairs is gratuitous.  Here are five notable strumpets I've been thinking about while preparing the Fargo for a few days of storage.

I gave away my clipless virginity to a shabbily constructed Giant Perigee with an embarrassingly 80'a minty green paint job.  She was interestingly alluring at the time with Biopace chainrings, like Pat Benatar with fingerless gloves and big hair.  Nevertheless, she never stood a chance of winning my respect.  I abandoned the Perigee without emotion when I graduated from law school.

My Giant MCR was loyal through many arduous qualifying events for Paris-Brest-Paris, but had serious physical limitations when it came to my insatiable shifting desires.  A growing frigidity locked up the rear derailleur, which made me despise the beauty I once found in the MCR's matronly frame.  It became a freakish blue abomination to me with that monstrously experimental monocoque frame.  The bride of Frankenstein!  I cannibalized her parts and what remains now collects dust in a storage shed.

I found brief respite in the flexible saddle of a saucy, tarty Slingshot.  After a while, I grew weary of all the flexibility in many riding positions.   It was like dating a contortionist and the novelty wore off.  The tension cable acting as a down tube made this ride too anorexic and taboo.  A good friend of mine took a shine to the bike and eloped to South Dakota with her a few years back. The luster obviously faded with  him, as well.  Teddy Ballgame pawned the Slingshot on my wife to haul back to Oregon when she paid a visit to see his family last week.  I'll probably give the Slingshot a makeover.  Rehab, a few facelifts and collagen injections will turn this spindly hag into a winsome cyclocross beauty.

A Nubian Princess broke my heart  by messing around with another man a few years ago.  My Felt F1X defiled her honor and was caught in flagrante on a hot summer day in 2007.  I hoisted her off a garage hook after I spied a boarder of mine fondling her saddle.  I desired to wash, lubricate and ride this neglected steed when my intentions were extinguished by the evidence of deception before me.  I bristled at the discovery of the Felt's top-tube with a massive ding upon it!  Attempts to camouflage such a corrupted maidenhead were futile.  When I confronted the perpetrators of my trust, I found that the FX1 had been doing street time as a commuter bike for my "guest."  A lowly commuter damaged by an uncaring and abusive paramour!

 "Et tu, Brute?" I whispered in her head tube as I shackled the frame in my dungeon of shame. 

Of course, I took pleasure in a commuter bike of my own.  A comfort bike, the Giant Halfway serves limited duty to this day, but was once my notable escort.  I needed companionship while on an assignment in Brussels and employed this elegant specimen.  Each day, atop the bike, I'd leave work and stride past the Mannekan Pis and take in a movie from time to time near the old World's Fair Atomium Park.  Life was whimsical and annoying French accordion music played in my head. 

A folding bike, the Halfway easily slipped onto the train with me, parked petite beside cafe tables and was nimble transport with its slight figure and 20" wheels. They'd fit perfectly in a champagne glass!  It was a perfect European romance with no hope of a future.  The Halfway wasn't built for long hauls of any sort, but stirs the Belgian chocolate cockles of my heart whenever I'm offered a continental breakfast waffle.