If you’ve been immersed in the world of cycling for any significant time, you’ve probably come across the infamous “n+1” principle. Famously defined by Velominati – a tongue-in-cheek set of rules for cyclists – it states:
The correct number of bikes to own is n+1.
Expanding on this, they humorously clarify that while three bikes might be a starting point, the ideal number is always one more than you currently possess. They even offer an alternative equation: s-1, where ‘s’ represents the number of bikes that would lead to separation from your significant other.
In my early days as a cycling enthusiast, the n+1 concept resonated deeply, even before I knew it had a name. My personal collection of bikes rapidly expanded from a single Fuji road bike. It quickly grew to include a dedicated road bike, a fixed gear for focused training, a light touring bike for adventures, a practical commuter/touring bike, a convenient folding bike, and even a single-speed folding bike – and the list goes on. You get the picture; the allure of more bikes was strong.
As cycling evolved into a central part of my life, bicycles themselves became objects of fascination. Each n+1 purchase was carefully justified. “I need a bike specifically for commuting.” “This one will serve as a reliable backup.” “A fixed gear is essential for honing my spin.” “A single speed is perfect for low maintenance and easy cleaning.”
The justifications became even more nuanced and desire-driven. “This bike is essential for randonneuring events, while that one is ideal for summer vacations and future bike tours.” “A mixte frame bike? Just because!” And then came the rationalizations driven by scarcity and exclusivity: “I must have this bike because it’s a limited edition,” and “This other bike is no longer in production, this might be my last chance to ever own one.” The n+1 logic seemed boundless.
Thankfully, in my household, the concept of n-1 simply doesn’t exist. There are no raised eyebrows when someone announces, “Have you seen this bicycle? I think I might need it.” We operate in a realm of cycling understanding. Bike purchases are not clandestine operations, and we’re honest about their cost (a practice I find perplexing when others feel the need to hide such things). The phrase “my partner won’t let me buy a bike” is foreign to our relationship (and frankly, I have opinions on that sentiment too). My spouse and I inherently understand the intrinsic need for bikes. Our dining room, which doubles as bike storage, serves as ample evidence.
However, with time and experience, my perspective on the n+1 principle has evolved. I’ve come to see it as a blend of truth and, perhaps more accurately, playful nonsense. It’s a running joke within the cycling community, and I appreciate the humor. While we can always invent justifications for acquiring another bike, and the cycling industry certainly encourages the pursuit of specialized bikes for every conceivable cycling niche and surface, the question lingers: how many bikes does one actually need?
Rivendell Romulus
A classic Rivendell Romulus bicycle, showcasing the beauty and craftsmanship that can fuel the desire for n+1 bikes.
I take pride in the bikes I’ve accumulated. Each was acquired after thoughtful consideration and often years of searching. However, I recognize that owning a multitude of bikes isn’t an extraordinary achievement. It primarily requires disposable income, available time for acquisition, and a genuine passion for bicycles. For many cycling enthusiasts, the n+1 principle is less about genuine need and more about the joy of collecting and the appreciation of diverse cycling machines.
Moreover, I’ve come to realize that the n+1 philosophy doesn’t fully align with my current riding habits. In reality, I primarily ride three bikes: my dependable Surly Long Haul Trucker for robust touring, my nimble Rivendell Quickbeam for everyday riding, and our Co-Motion Java tandem for shared adventures. While these are my go-to bikes, I also cherish my Rivendell Romulus, Bike Friday Pocket Rocket, and Rawland dSogn, considering them my preferred steeds for solo weekend rides. However, with less solo weekend riding these days, these beautiful machines spend more time admired than actively ridden.
My bike usage would likely increase if I were engaging in more solo long-distance rides. But my current focus on tandem touring and randonneuring means my other bikes are enjoyed less frequently. They are taken out for occasional spins, but for the most part, they reside in what has affectionately become known as the Dining Room Bike Shop.
In contrast, my partner, Felkerino, embodies the n+1 rider more fully than I do. He regularly rotates through the bikes on his side of our shared dining room space. He explains that he enjoys switching his ride every two or three weeks, ensuring each bike gets its time in the spotlight. Felkerino distributes his affection equally among his bike collection, while I tend to concentrate my riding time on a select few favorites.
I genuinely appreciate all the bikes in my collection. With the notable exception of a challenging period with a Bike Friday Tikit, I’ve meticulously dialed in the fit and comfort of each, ensuring they perform well for both short commutes and extended distances. It’s certainly a luxury to have bikes perfectly suited for brevets, mixed terrain adventures, daily commutes, and long-distance touring, but is it truly a necessity?
Realistically, I don’t ride each of my bikes enough to fully justify owning them all from a purely practical standpoint. In the meantime, I embrace my bike collection as a joyful indulgence. I already own them, and I hold onto the aspiration of riding them all more frequently in the future. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day. Or maybe next week. Or when the weather gets warmer. The cyclist’s optimism for future rides is perpetual.
The allure of new bikes remains. I still admire them, contemplate their riding characteristics, and envision how they might complement my existing “bike family.” The concept of the “future bike” is ever-present, and the desire for it persists. However, in a practical sense, my personal n+1 days are currently on hold. The dining room, after all, is quite full.
