Not liking your bike or gear

When I was head of psychiatry at the Kant Institute in Bern, Switzerland, I had a patient suffering in much this way. I don't think I am breaking any doctor/patient/nutter confidences by adumbrating his tribulations.
He'd been riding a particular bicycle, let's call it a Bolnago, for a few months and, as a humble working man, it had taken him a good while to save up the money to buy it. As you will know Binarellos are not cheap. However the joy he had long anticipated failed to manifest itself. This caused my patient to experience feelings of regret, sadness and shame. I found it all very amusing but obviously kept that to myself.
The patient had essayed a variety of increasingly peculiar methods to overcome his depression. He had lowered the saddle, and then raised it. He had fitted white bar tape only to have his day ruined by a muddy puddle. He had ridden to the shops and back one handed, and then no handed. The prominent scar on his chin told one all one needed to know about how that ended. He had tried lycra, and then wool, and then sports wool, and then vegan sports wool to no avail. One night his wife, driving home from a seance, saw her husband riding entirely naked around the village square.
There were other misadventures and dead ends, an embarrassing court case and an unking thread on Reddit before he turned up in my consulting room. For six months, twice a week for 45 minutes (billed for an hour) we worked through his neuroses, his lonely childhood on an isolated farm with a disappointed father and another slightly less disappointed father, the ensuing identity crises and half hearted acts of rebellion, the year he ate nothing but Stilton cheese. It sounds interesting but the three quarters of an hour often felt like a full hour.
In the end. Oh sorry, someone at the door. BRB.