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I used to have a wicked coke addiction.

Now, before I’m accused of trying to piggyback on the hit parade of the World Company resident stripper’s recent blog about hookers and blow (and I’m pretty sure trying to piggyback on a stripper’s blog would get me thrown out of any decent adult-entertainment venue in the region), I should clarify my addiction was to the coke you drink through a straw, not snort.

In college, Coke — leaded — was the poison of choice, and I drank it by the two-liter-full. After putting on the equivalent of a person or two around the midsection, I switched to diet beverages, eventually got used to what at first I thought was an awful aftertaste and started getting my caffeine fix that way.

I flirted with Diet Dr. Pepper before settling on mainlining Diet Coke or Vanilla Zero.

And I pounded the stuff: a can with breakfast, another later in the morning, one or two with lunch, a couple more in the afternoon, a couple over the dinner break, maybe a half dozen at work, another before bed.

The stockist at our local grocery store new me on sight and stocked accordingly. The guys at the aluminum recylery knew me by name. When Coca-Cola started its Coke Rewards program — in which frequent drinkers earn points for each purchase — I racked up enough to buy clothes, shoes and a couple of small electronics.

Then a couple of years ago, I decided I’d dropped enough coin on such a pointless substance and, rather than cut back to a reasonable level of consumption, decided to go cold turkey.

After a couple of shaky, grumpy weeks and a few classic DT’s symptoms — “SPIDERS! GET THEM OFF ME!!!!!” — I’d kicked Coke. Haven’t had one since.

I went caffeine-free for months, then realized that while I might be better off without all that gunk — rodent-tumor-fodder or not — in my system, I really sort of missed caffeine.

So I reintroduced myself to Coke’s big brother, coffee. First, it was straight Joe. Then I graduated to fancy espresso-latte-ccino-with-a-twists.

And though no one could slug back the java in the same volume I tossed back soda (and live), I’ve developed something of an addiction to the old battery acid in all its lovely forms.

What does any of this have to do with cycling?

I’ve found that bikes and beans have a longstanding connection.

Several former bike racers have started their own brands of coffee. Coffee producers — Jittery Joe’s and 53X11, for example — sponsor racers and races. Many group rides start or end at coffee shops (or visit them mid-ride), and some full-service bike shops have coffee shops inside.

I’m not sure coffee and cycling are any more closely linked than, say, coffee and running or jai alai or naked lawn darts. But I do know “cyclist” is almost synonymous with “java junkie.”

Now that I’ve established the link, I’m trying to find a way to enjoy both simultaneously — with more success than, say, celebrities like Madonna, who once wiped out on her bike while imbibing joe, sending the paparazzi into a tizzy.

It would be inelegant at best simply to fill a bike bottle with 40-weight. Besides, drinking out of that little poppet certainly would cause serious burns, and in the chill of winter I reckon the joe would freeze before I made it to the end of my street.

A back-mounted hydration station — a Camelback — would hold tons of java, and the warmth would feel wonderful on the back, but I’m afraid of more burnage through use of the bite valve.

Then I happened upon a nifty coffee mug and handlebar holder from the folks at Soma Fabrications. The cup is stainless and holds 16 ounces of your beverage of choice. The simple ’bar mount keeps the black gold close at hand.

The thought of taking a nip every couple of blocks as I pedal in the winter chill really does warm my soul — more than any amount of Coke ever could.