One year ago yesterday, I ordered a 2021 Canyon Neuron CF 8, my first new mountain bike since the GT Aggressor my dad got for me as an 11-year-old. As I recall, the whole purchase process for that GT took about five minutes. We entered the bike shop, I pointed to "the red one,” and we left.
More than two decades had gone by since I had given any consideration to acquiring another mountain bike. For much of that time, I’d abandoned the sport completely in favor of more timely matters: cars, college, career, etc. Before spending real money to get back into mountain biking, I had some catching up to do.
I went deep into the research process. Like, Mariana Trench-deep. I started with a simple Google search: “best mountain bikes.” I could have clicked the first result, reviewed the article, and taken the experts’ top recommendation. End of story.
But I didn’t. I pressed on, feeding my curiosity with another query, then another and another. Mountain bike technology had come a very long way since my middle school days. With each discovery, I found more to investigate; with each investigation, I discovered more.
It became a ritual. Practically each night after dinner, I’d log in to my computer and dive into a new facet of mountain biking – components, geometries, riding styles. The list grew and grew. I absorbed as much information as I could, all the while triangulating which bike would put the biggest smile on my face – and keep it there.
This went on for months. By October of 2020, I had curated an encyclopedia’s worth of mountain biking content. My internet browser buckled under the weight of dozens of cycling-related tabs. Newsletters from bike magazines and manufacturers flooded my inbox. Sticky notes with bike models and part numbers took over the flat surfaces in our home. I even created a spreadsheet so I could easily compare tire widths, frame colors, and other attributes of the various mountain bikes I liked.
The more time I spent shopping for the perfect bike, the more pressure I put on myself to make the right decision. Eventually, I developed a sort of early-onset buyer’s remorse. What if, after all of this effort, I get a bike and end up wishing I’d gotten a different one instead?
One evening, after I’d consumed my usual smorgasbord of video reviews, digital brochures, and comparison guides, my wife turned to me and politely asked, “What else do you still need to learn in order to make this decision?”
It was a rhetorical question. She could see clearly that I’d stuffed myself with all the information I needed and then some. What started as an innocent query had spiraled into a massive project with no end in sight. How many incredible mountain bike rides had I already missed on account of analysis paralysis? The thought upset me. It was time to make some moves.
Gradually, I narrowed my consideration set from about 20 bikes, to 10, to two that were quite similar, both from the German manufacturer Canyon. I was stuck because Canyon is a direct-to-consumer company, so there were no opportunities to demo either option before committing to one. This meant I had to make my decision based only on what I’d learned, not what I’d experienced for myself.
When I finally submitted my order for the Neuron, I felt relief that I imagine is on par with exiting the room after defending one’s dissertation. “I’ve done all I can do,” I remember telling my wife as I slumped back in my office chair. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
A few days later, when the bike arrived at our doorstep in a refrigerator-sized box, my heart raced. I promptly backed the car out of the garage, giving myself plenty of elbow room to complete the assembly. After an hour, with each and every last bolt tightened and checked, I pointed the bike down the driveway and threw a leg over. Hundreds of hours spent in the lonely glow of a laptop had culminated in this moment – the moment of truth.
I rolled down the driveway and onto my street, shifting through all 12 gears and flying over a few curbs to test the suspension. With each shock compression and pedal stroke, my confidence grew. It seemed as though the master class I'd put myself through had matched me with the right bike after all. More than that, it had given me a deep appreciation for the little things about the bike that would have gone totally unnoticed by the guy I was the year before – the click of the second upshift, the eager rebound of the dropper post, the stiffness of the carbon frame. Smiling, I concluded my test drive and went back inside. There was still one thing left to do.
I gathered up all of the sticky notes I'd scattered around the house, dropped them into the recycling bin on my way out the door, and rode off to the nearest trailhead.
