In what I can only interpret as a devastating critique of my riding style, my trusty Garmin 510 recently made a wild lunge for freedom.
Fifty-one miles in to my weekend ride, and careering down a steep descent into my home town, it leapt from its moorings. I heard it bounce, and clatter, and hoped desperately that it was intact.
It took me three ascent-descent-ascents of a fifty metre stretch of 10% Tarmac to spot the reckless escapee, on the opposite side of the road, nestled in a clump of grass.
I was grateful, because new bike computers are expensive. I was also angry, because I have a habit of projecting human characteristics onto inanimate bike-related objects.
“How dare you!” I wanted to say.
“Have you got ANY idea how worried I’ve been?” I almost continued.
What do you mean you were “bored stiff by my heavy-legged early season plodding!?” I would’ve gone on to say.
I have to admit that, despite my better judgement, I also caught myself thinking “thank goodness I found it…that was a good solid fifty-miles of data I almost lost…phew!”
I was a bit disappointed in myself.
And so, I make a promise.
At some point my now-perhaps-not-quite-so-trusty Garmin 510 will finally give up the ghost. Probably quite soon given its age, it’s latest skitter along the Tarmac, and the fact that henceforth it will be glued to its mount with potent industrial super-glue that will probably penetrate it’s workings and send it loopy.
When it does, I resolve to spend the rest of that calendar year analogue.
Just to see.