The Ten-Gear Gospel of Lena Sharpe
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The Ten-Gear Gospel (as Told by the Mug)
I am not new, not flawless, not shiny. I am a mug. A chipped ceramic vessel with a sticker slapped on my side to cover the ghost of a coffee shop logo long gone. My handle bears a faint crack shaped like a lightning bolt—earned honestly, carried proudly. You might think mugs are silent, but we notice things. We listen. We remember.
And I remember 2016. It was a quiet Michigan morning, the kind where the air holds its breath before the sun has fully committed. Dew clung to Lena’s helmet. Steam rose from the coffee she’d poured into me, curling up like the smoke of some ancient campfire. She wrapped her hands around me, seeking warmth, and I felt it—the weight of a thought heavy enough to tip the scales of her whole cycling life.
She looked at me, eyes clear, and said, “I’m simplifying.”
Now, mugs don’t speak. We just hold what we’re given. But in that moment, I swear the coffee inside me shivered in agreement.
“Thirty gears,” she muttered, shaking her head, “three chainrings, ten cogs, and thirty ways to choose wrong. I’m done with it. I’m going one-by. Ten in the back. One in the front. No more front derailleur drama.”
I would have cheered if I could. Instead, I just let the coffee taste like approval.
A Mug’s Confessions
For months leading up to that day, I’d heard her complaints. I was there, perched on the counter or cupped in her hands, when she’d groan about the clack-shift-clack of that cursed front derailleur. I felt her fingers tighten on my handle as she whispered about cross-chaining disasters, about “vibes” that failed her on the switchbacks.
I was her confessor. Her witness. Her silent companion.
And at night, filled with chamomile or peppermint, I became her thinking stone. She’d cradle me and say, “Maybe fewer choices. Maybe if I take away the left thumb, my brain will stop running a committee meeting every time the trail climbs.”
If mugs had faces, I’d have smiled. If mugs had voices, I’d have said: Yes. Yes, Lena. Do it.
The Great Simplification
When the day finally came, she carried me right into the bike shop. I sat on the counter under the bright buzz of fluorescent lights while she delivered her decree to the mechanic.
“I need a narrow-wide chainring,” she said, voice firm, “and a clutch derailleur. And maybe that lube that smells like pine after rain.”
The mechanic, forearms like braided rope and a tiny crankset tattoo, looked her over like an oracle. “What size ring?”
Lena hesitated. “Something reasonable. I like spinning more than mashing, but I don’t want to top out on flats. Maybe a 30? Or a 32?”
The mechanic smiled. “You’re a 30-with-10-in-the-back rider. But mentally? You might be a 32 who believes in herself.”
I swear the coffee inside me nearly boiled with pride.
The conversion was an hour-long ritual. Off came the front shifter, the derailleur, the cables. I watched those little tyrants tossed into the drawer of retirement, condemned to live beside old cleats and lonely spacers. On went the single chainring, its teeth standing tall and honest, promising to hold the chain like a friend. A clutch derailleur followed, steady and reliable, refusing to flap even when the trail turned mean.
I felt Lena’s grip on me relax as the mechanic wiped her hands. It was done. The Simplification had arrived.
The mechanic eyed me before Lena left. “Nice sticker,” she said.
Lena smiled. “Every mug deserves a second act.”
And I thought: so does every rider.
First Ride, New Gospel
That afternoon, tucked in her backpack, swaddled in a towel like some fragile relic, I rode with her to Hunters Ridge. Roots, rocks, switchbacks—I felt every bump through her cadence. And for the first time, no clack. No muttering chain. Just the hush of ten solid gears doing their job.
At the overlook—a rock big enough to think it was a throne—she pulled me out, set me down in the sunlight. I basked like I had been waiting all my life for that moment.
“You’re ridiculous,” she told me.
Ridiculous or not, I caught the light just right. Heroic, even.
The Ten 1x Commandments
Back home, Lena placed me on her desk and began typing, her fingers clattering like a hymn. I could see the list forming on the glowing screen:
- Thou shalt not spend the first mile making small talk with thy front derailleur.
- Thou shalt remember one sturdy chainring is worth three indecisive ones.
- Thou shalt not fear the clutch.
- Thou shalt honor thy B-screw.
- Thou shalt embrace simplicity, and simplicity shall embrace thy knees.
- Thou shalt leave cross-chaining to crossworders.
- Thou shalt drink coffee from a mug that has known other lives.
- Thou shalt ride more than thou debates riding.
- Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s chainrings. One honest ring is enough; envy only adds weight.
- Thou shalt find joy in the ride, not in the ratio charts. Let the trail be thy teacher, not the spreadsheet.
She read them aloud to me, and I sat like a good congregation, nodding in silence. The Ten-Gear Gospel was born.
Spreading the Word
Days passed. Rides multiplied. At the pie shop, she set me on the table beside a slice of blueberry optimism and snapped a photo. One-by, pie-by, she typed into the group chat.
On trails, other riders slowed and pointed: “One-by, huh?” One even said, “Front derailleurs are like dial-up internet. Charming, but who wants to wait to load a hill?”
Everywhere we went, people noticed her smile, the ease in her cadence. And sometimes they noticed me, too. The mug with a sticker. The talisman. The witness.
Then came the podcast. Lena’s voice, nervous but steady, filling the mic while I sat on the desk beside her. She spoke of simplicity, of ghost shifts gone, of choosing one gear and finding freedom. She spoke of me.
And for once, I believed a mug could be a muse.
Almost a Decade Later
I have lived many lives in Lena’s hands—coffee mug, confidant, co-conspirator in the war against needless complication. I have heard her Ten-Gear Gospel whispered into microphones and shouted on switchbacks.
That morning in 2016 was the spark. And now, almost a decade later, I’m still here—chipped, stubborn, stickered, steady.
And Lena? She still swears by the one-by. It’s her gospel, her creed, her freedom. But she’s no longer a 1x10. These days, she’s a 1x12. More range, more refinement, still simple. Still true.
And me? I’m still her mug. Still full of stories. Still holding the gospel, sip by sip.