My Peugeot, on the other hand, is kind of an ass (he is French, after all--apologies to the French). He has dramatic problems that confuse me, and he refuses to let me in on his deepest secrets. There are parts of him that I just don't have access to, and that, frankly, scare me. But man, if I ever want to just get out there and go, he's always right there with me. And he's stylish, too, like a fast car or a well-bred horse. But sheesh, is he ever high-maintenance. We may someday have to go see a professional together.
My wife's Schwinn is like a good acquaintance. We've hung out a few times, shot the breeze, and what-have-you, but we're not close. I check in from time to time, just to make sure everything is going okay, and we've been known to double-date on small outings. She's nice, and she lets me know if she needs anything, but we're not real tight.
The Runwell, who I'm still getting to know, is like one of those people you meet and they immediately let you in to their confidence. He's open, honest, and not ashamed of his flaws. He's a pretty simple guy, not overly complicated, and you get the sense that he's a real no-nonsense kind of fellow. But you can also tell that he's really good to his friends, and if you put yourself out there for him, he'll come through in a big way.
I know this is all just a little silly and romantic, but it speaks to the good effects of working on old bikes. I think what you get out of it is ultimately more than just a nice ride or a new set of mechanical skills; perhaps you also get a better sense of yourself, a deeper sort of patience with others, and a repertoire of experience that you can carry into other aspects of your life. For all the other benefits of riding old, perhaps these are the most significant.
