My wife related a funny story over the weekend.

A co-worker of hers recently acquired three piglets. She got them for pork, not pets, and was saying she had to be careful not to get too attached to them.

As she was showing a picture of them around the office, someone asked if she had named the priceless porcines.

“That one’s breakfast, that one’s lunch, and that one’s dinner,” she said, deadpan.

I chuckled, muttered something about the folly of naming a sandwich-meat-to-be, then retreated to my own thoughts.

Momentarily distracted by visions of bacon — envision Homer Simpson here: “Mmm … bacon” — I pushed that aside long enough to get back to the task at hand: naming my most recent bicycle purchase.

See, it might be foolish to name a cute porker — N1H1 anyone? — but naming bikes is serious business.

I think anything that spends so much time wedged in such a, uh, sensitive spot should be addressed on a first-name basis, and I tend to think bikes, like ships, should be female.

I remember the first bike I bought in semi-adulthood, way back when I was a freshman in college, was a hybrid — a do-it-all bike, or jack of all trades. Thus, she was Jackie.

Two Edinburgh-brand mountain bikes followed. The Scottish-made rides were Lassie (natch) and Bonnie.

My first serious (read: expensive) bike after that was a Giant brand. A longtime San Francisco Giants fan, the most identifiable Giant at that time was Barry Bonds. I couldn’t stand the guy, personally, but my bike became Mary Bonds.

Then came a Cannondale road bike I named Cecily. Backstory: When my wife was pregnant with our first child, we agreed if it was a girl, her name would be Cecily. The fateful day came, and after hours of painful yet fruitless labor, my wife was spent. As we headed into the O.R. for a cesarean section to get the bugger out, my wife turned to me and said, in no uncertain terms, “If it’s a girl, her name is going to be Carlyn.” I believe my response was, “OK, whatever you want, just don’t die, OK? Please? OK?” (My wife to this day disputes my recollection, but keep in mind, I had no drugs that day. At least one of us was lucid. Who are you going to believe?) I didn’t want to waste such a good name, so I slapped in on my bike.

A fixed-gear Specialized followed. At first she was Plain Jane — no gears, utilitarian — but I thought that was a bit insulting, so she became Trixie the Fixie.

And then there was the Bianchi cyclocross bike. At first I thought she was a Celeste, which is what Bianchi calls its trademark blue-green color, but she ended up Bianca.

Which brings us to my latest ride: a sleek, gorgeous, fast (until I get aboard) Cervelo road bike I recently acquired.

I’m not taking this naming thing lightly.

The day I was born, my parents decided I was a Brian, so dad went to work, told all his buddies about baby Brian, maybe even passed out a few cigars (even though dad didn’t smoke cigars, that’s how the parents of old-timers like me celebrated their bundles of joy, because, after all, nothing says, “Welcome to the world” quite like a cancer stick). That night, dad returned to the hospital to visit me and mom, and mom had had a change of heart. Thus, I became Andrew.

Makes me wonder how my life of Brian would have been different. Curiously, my best friend in elementary school was a Brian, and my best friend through most of high school was another Brian. Maybe I felt a special affinity with the band of Brian brothers. Had I stayed Brian, I might have steered clear. Who knows how different my life would have been?

So I’m not going to rush into anything in naming my newest ride. I wouldn’t want to scar her.

Not that I’d anthropomorphize something like a bike.

That’d just be silly.