TALES: Is letting go always this tough?

When everything else made of metal on this island appears to disintegrate under the strain of constant humidity, the forest green metallic paint on the rigid frame of the eight-year-old Diamond Back Sorrento still gleams at me in all of its rigid glory. Okay, there are four hex bolts with rust spots on them (including the two for the water bottle cage that was never attached), but why hasn't the chain rusted after only two lubes in so many years?

The real question is: "Why is it still here?"

I meant to sell it when I bought a Cannondale F800 after arriving back in Okinawa, but decided to make the Sorrento my commuter. Then, I definitely was going to sell it after upgrading to a Prophet. But here it sits.

What is it about your first mountain bike that makes it so hard to let go?

It could be the glorious memories of coming in 4th of 5 in the novice heat of a muddy XC race course carved into the backside of an Okinawa military base a week after I bought it in 1998, or sitting on a overpass under a camoflauged poncho the old girl held over me during a torrential downpour -- we shared a Meal Ready to Eat of meatloaf, as I recall.

It could be that the Sorrento is what gave me freedom and allowed me to explore this wonderful island for the first time in 1998, introduced me to singetrack riding and gave me a thrill like no other (aside from being a husband and father).

It could be that it never failed despite the abuse it took from a beginner who, through his own ignorance, continued to demand performance with little more than spraying its muddy carcass off with a hose month after month.

Maybe when the answer comes I'll be ready to part with with my old steed, but that answer doesn't seem to be coming anytime soon. It just wouldn't be right to say goodbye here in Okinawa anyway -- not when this is where we met.