I still distinctly remember when the cruel side of capitalism found its way into my own living room. It was May 1999. I was finishing my sixth year of college, still with no degree to show for my efforts. At 26 years old, I felt like I really hadn’t gotten my act together. I had no money, no degree, no plan-just a fancy mountain bike and one hell of a hangover.

The impending fall semester marked the approach of two words that struck fear into my psyche: student loans. Since I was broke and wouldn’t be riding much that summer-I’d just be working-and since I really had no need for a full suspension bike since I quit racing back in 1996, I decided to do something sacrilegious in the name of the mighty dollar: sell my mountain bike.

My 16.5-inch red Pro Flex 854 had been through a lot with me. None of my friends-not even my past girlfriends-knew me as well as my bike did. I’d logged thousands of hours in the saddle, over hill and dale, in good times and bad, midterms, breakups, and blurry late nights. My bike and I plowed through piles of windblown snow and slid in the sticky, cool spring mud. Among the oppressive heat and swarming mosquitoes of summer we traveled, under the brilliant fall canopies we coasted.

Every day I’d carry by bike down the stairs of my apartment hallway, the floor still sticky with dried beer and malt liquor from weekend parties, and out the front door of my building, into the sunlit parking area. Once aboard my steed, I pedaled up through the deserted summertime college campus to a series of serpentine mountain bike paths behind the university’s field house. Once on the Blue Trail, away from civilization, my bike and I were intimately one. My tires softly flattened leaves and slid through mud holes that didn’t dry up until August. My gloved fingers delicately worked the shifters and brake levers, my suspension soaked up the terrain. Besides the breeze filtering through my helmet, only my shifting derailleurs broke the primeval silence.

That’s what came to mind when I decided to sell my bike-not the $700 cash that might end up in my pocket. My decision to sell was permeated with guilt. Who would end up with this bike I loved so? Unfortunately, anyone with $700. Some suburban parents who would buy it for their rotten spoiled brat to leave out in the rain and do skids on. Or some independently wealthy Phish head who rarely dabbled in sobriety and would never even ride the damn thing. Or maybe a muscle-bound frat boy that would bash it through the woods, attempt lame-ass bunny hops in his driveway, ride with the seat way too low, downshift while mashing the pedals, and let some girl ride it because she was “hot.” I felt like I was plotting to sell a lover into a degrading life of masochistic prostitution, exploited by dirty pimps. The very idea of selling my bike to a substandard owner, a stranger, reeked of irresponsibility. But after attempting to withdrawal forty dollars from an ATM later that day, which was unsuccessful due to “inadequate funds,” necessity prevailed over emotion.

I printed up the advertisements: “Full Suspension Mountain Bike For Sale.” An unflattering black and white image of my bike was placed below the headline along with all of the specialized, hand-picked parts. I hung the ads in bike shops, bookstores, and coffee houses, hanging my head in shame after pressing in each thumbtack.

Two weeks went by and no one called, thank God. I hoped no one would ever call. I kept reassuring myself no one wanted my bike. I thought, “A 1994 bike for $700? No way. It’s a dinosaur. 28 pounds of Shimano DX parts and suspension that consists of pieces of foam hyped as ‘elastomers.’ Nope, this thing isn’t going anywhere.”

Unfortunately, a week later the phone in my living room rang. I prayed the call had nothing to do with my bike. I picked up the phone and gave the usual “Hello.” An obnoxiously enthusiastic voice greeted me. “Hi, I’m calling about the bike for sale.” Showing some respect for my bike, I walked into the kitchen, out of sight, to spare it from overhearing the details of a potential sale. I whispered into the receiver, “Yeah, the Pro Flex?” “Yes, is it still for sale?” I asked him to hold on a minute. Laying down the phone I walked back into the living room and gazed at my bike. I thought back to the rides on the Blue Trail and the good times we had on that route-our route. If I sold my bike, who would go back to the Blue Trail with me? A Specialized I didn’t even know? Some Cannondale off the street? I didn’t want to become a mountain bike whore. My bike and I found joy in monogamy. But I walked back into the kitchen, stared at my useless ATM card laying on the table, and picked up the phone, demurringly reporting, “Yeah… it’s for sale.” “Great. Can I come over tomorrow?”

The rest of the day I didn’t look directly at my bike. It was just too damn sad. Though its sounds psycho-delusional, I somehow felt my bike heard the phone conversation and knew I had betrayed our relationship. By evening we both knew we were breaking up. It was over.

At ten o’clock the next morning the potential buyer arrived. I led the young man into the living room and to my helpless bike. But once this kid and I struck up a rapport, things started looking a little brighter. Though only 15 years old, he noticed the Shimano DX front hub and noted, “Whether it’s DX or XTR, a front hub is still only a front hub.” He appreciated the Kevlar-beaded tires, double-butted spokes, and Bontrager BCX rims. He respected that I took good care of my bike and said that it looked “really clean.” He looked the bike up and down one more time, pushed on the front fork and rear suspension again, smiled, and took a step back. “I’ll take it.”

Right on cue, a huge pile of cash was pulled from his pocket and handed to me. He gentlemanly said, “You’re more than welcome to count it, but it’s all there. $700.” I slowly drew in the stack of well-worn twenties as I stood there in shock-in utter disbelief that I just sold a bike I rode every other day for five years straight. I counted the money, then put it in my pocket reassuring him that it was all there. Then I thanked him. He replied with a devilish little smile, “No, thank you.”

He wheeled the bike out my apartment, cyclocross-carried it down the stairs, his feet sticking to the dried beer and malt liquor, and arrived in the sunlit parking area. From my window on the second floor I watched him ride away, shifting delicately, gently leaning into his first turn like someone who really knew how to ride. I never saw my bike again. All I had left were two small imprints in the brown carpet where the front and rear tires always sat.

I stared at the desolate scene in sadness, took the massive wad of cash out of my pocket and felt like a chump, giving into the mighty dollar so easily. Suffused by a feeling of loss, I comforted myself by reasoning there would be other bikes in my future and that eating and paying rent was more important than riding. But for the rest of the week, and the next, I would have chosen riding my bike on the Blue Trail for just one short minute over comfortably eating and paying rent that summer.

Erik Schlimmer, author of McGraw Hill’s Thru Hiker’s Guide to America, recently rode the entire U.S.-Mexico Border end-to-end on the sixth mountain bike that he’s owned.