It was a summer afternoon in 2018 when I found myself at the checkout, staring at a price I could hardly believe: £600. My card shook slightly as I inserted it into the reader, unsure whether to go through with the purchase. The figure was the largest sum I’d ever spent on anything, and I hesitated.
The shop assistant noticed my apprehension and asked if everything was alright. I assured him I was fine, but my slow, uncertain input of the PIN gave a different story. I had come to an out-of-town bike shop, ready to buy my first road bike. I’d already found it online earlier that day: a sleek, matte black Specialized Allez, 61cm frame. I couldn’t wait, so I convinced my dad to drive me there, where I briefly tested it with a wobbly ride around the parking lot. It didn’t take long to make up my mind. This bike was mine.
But as soon as money was involved, doubts crept in.
Looking back now, of course, I realize that it was the best £600 I ever spent. Like a first car, a first pet, or even your first teacher, there’s something mythic about your first road bike. It’s the one that opens the doors to a new world, the one that introduces you to freedom. No bike could ever quite replace it.
My Allez was made of aluminum, with thin handlebars and rim brakes, and an unruly collection of cables stretching across its frame. It wasn’t the most advanced model, but to me, it was a treasure. I spent more time taking photos of it than actually riding it at first. But soon enough, the bike and I were inseparable, exploring the French Alps, winding up the iconic hairpins of Alpe d’Huez, surrounded by sunshine.
There was a close call on that trip. My bike almost met its end when a rusty roof rack snapped and sent it tumbling down the side of the car. I clung to the frame through the open window, my arm aching with the strain. Though the bike took a few scratches, the damage was only superficial.
After that, we spent countless hours together on mountain ranges from the Pyrenees to the Yorkshire Dales. I swapped out the flat pedals for cleats, thanks to a second-hand pair of Shimano shoes I had bought on eBay. I remember the seller’s note: “Selling because I fell down the stairs wearing them.” They were packaged in a simple plastic bag, sealed with tape.
The love affair with my Allez lasted two years. Eventually, I was drawn to a new bike with more advanced gears, and so I upgraded to a Trek Emonda. The Allez, once my pride and joy, was left behind, a relic of the past. It was the transition from a childhood toy—my first bike—to the next chapter of cycling.
But it wasn’t until much later that I truly began to appreciate what the Allez had meant to me. As Joni Mitchell famously sang, “You don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.” That sentiment rang true the day my bike was stolen from a park in London. By that point, I had fitted it with flat pedals again, using it as a commuter bike. The back wheel was buckled, and the chain was caked in grime, but it was still a reliable companion.
Now, my beloved Allez exists only as a crime reference number.
I try not to dwell on what happened to it. Given its worn condition, I doubt it was stripped for parts. But recently, a friend told me he’d just bought his first road bike. Naturally, I asked what he’d chosen. “Specialized something… Allez?” he replied, unsure of the exact model. My heart skipped a beat. He had unknowingly chosen the same bike that had been my first. I couldn’t help but smile nostalgically, the memories flooding back.
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