If I love my commuter bike so much, why do I treat it so bad?

A few years ago an older couple came into the shop and asked to see some mountain bikes.  Though they were both retirees, they wanted the highest-end xc hardtails we carried.  Not beginner bikes, or upright do-it-all (badly) mountain hybrid rides, but race-ready hardtails.  They'd done their research, and they knew what they wanted: the lightest, most nimble mountain bikes available.  Both of them were so agreeable and enthusiastic about getting their dream bike that it was actually fun for me to send them out on their various test rides and hear them marvel at how light the aluminum frames were, or how plush the suspension forks felt, and how responsive the disc brakes grabbed.  They ended up leaving with a matching pair of Giant XTC's and as the husband wheeled his bike out the door, he thanked me for my help, shook my hand, and asked me if I wanted to have his old bike.

"It used to be a pretty nice ride," he said.  "I loved that bike.  It's unrideable now, but if you can fix it up you can have it.  I'll bring it by tomorrow for you." 

I thanked him, figuring we could cobble a shop ride beater out of it.  But when he came by the next day, I knew it was mine all mine.  He and his wife were snowbirds, fleeing the winter in their RV for warmer climes, where they loved to ride rail-to-trails and country dirt roads, so they always had mountain bikes with them, hitched to the back of their rig.  Last month, they'd gotten rear-ended by a semi, and his wife's bike was on the outside of the bike rack, so it took the brunt of the damage - her frame snapped.  His bike looked bad, as well.  The front wheel was pretzeled, the stem was folded back towards the saddle, and both ends of his handlebar were pointed in the same direction.

The frame itself, however - a fillet brazed Ritchey TimberWolf - looked fine.  In fact, it looked like the rolling work of art that it is.  Tom Ritchey himself probably did a few of the welds on that frame.  I swallowed hard and told him he could probably still fix it up by replacing a few parts and she'd ride like new.  But he told me he'd moved on, that he was happy to spend the insurance money on new bikes for him and the missus, and that I was welcome to fix it up myself as a fun project.  With that, he kissed his fingertips, lightly laid his hand on the bike's top tube in farewell, and left.

I scavenged enough parts to ride her home as a present to my girl, but after a few rides, we decided that the bike was a bit too big for her.  So the Ritchey sat dormant until I concluded that after years of riding in the city, I deserved a purpose-built commuter.  I installed the best thumb-shifters I could find, as well as full fenders and front and rear racks.  I was going to take off the front derailleur and 1x9 her for simplicity's sake, but I saw the little deer's head embossed on it (Shimano was way more whimsical in the '80's) and left it on.

And I ride the living piss outta that thing.  I mean it.  I flog it to within an inch of its life.  I've bungeed a 25 lb bag of dog food to the front rack and a 40 lb sack of cat litter to the rear one and wobbled home.  I've gone grocery shopping while hungry and come back with the bike so laden down with provisions I could feed a family of four for a week.  I've ridden her hard through rainstorms and blizzards and put her away wet.  This bike does it all and takes it all, with little to no maintenance.  By far, the Ritchey is the most overworked and underappreciated bike in my stable.

So if I love her so much, why do I treat it so bad?  It really is a piece of history.  I should strip all the parts off the frame and hang it on a wall, or sell it to an enthusiast so it can be properly restored.  But I think I'd rather just keep on beating it to death.  After all, I think that's what it was built for - and I think Tom Ritchey himself would agree with me.