All of my life I've been told that "Throwing money at a problem solves nothing -- Money can't solve anything."
Wrong.
While money shouldn't be the default solution to any problem, it is often a wonderful tool.  Sadly, money can buy some things; ...most politicians for example.
And, while money can't buy love, it does provide access, however fleetingly, to beautiful women - which can be almost as gratifying (...at least temporarily - an important nuance that I've struggled to impart to my sons).
(My wife's retort to this is to suggest that her next husband will be rich rather than, like her present husband, extremely good-looking.)

In the sport of Triathlon, money talks.
Moving to the priciest swim attire might only shave seconds off of your 2.4 mile swim time. And purchasing the latest competitive running shoe might only trim a minute off of your marathon.
But when it comes to bicycling, money equals time.  Money equals performance.  Money equals success.
A $500 bicycle will get you through the event.  A $1,000 bicycle will move you through the same event an hour faster.  And a $5,000 bicycle should get you through in a time that would make your wife and children proud.  ...and leave enough juice in your legs to run 26.2 miles.
A $10,000 bike should be unavailable to mere mortals.  Yet, one would be surprised at how many are sitting at T1 (jargon for Transition Area number 1) at the beginning of an event.

I ride a bicycle manufactured by a company called Kestrel.  My bike is red, very aerodynamic and built of carbon fiber.  This means that my bicycle has a weight equivalent to your typical hummingbird ...and unfortunately, about as much structural integrity.  It is not uncommon for a carbon fiber thoroughbred to hit a small stone in the road and crumple beneath the rider.
I love my bike (...as, I must assume, most triathletes love their rides).  It is (as already stated) an obnoxious red, and has those stereotypical triathlete protruding aerodynamic handlebars (or, as my daughter calls them; antlers).  
I wear "clip-on" bike cleats which literally strap me onto my bike's pedals, therefore increasing efficiency but also assuring that when (not if) I crash, I will tumble down still locked into my machine. (Crashes are the price we pay for competition.  I write this with a very bad case of "road-rash" as a result of a crash last Monday. Not my first. Not my last.  To echo Hyman Roth, "This. Is. The. Sport. We. Have. Chosen!")
And (Saints be praised) bike riders assume that you will need to drink continuously (we like to use terms like "Hydration") and therefore my bike has numerous locations where I prop my water bottles.  The phrase bikers use is "If you don't drink, you can't drive."
 
The "geometry" of the bike (...as we Triathlon snobs refer to it) is striking.  Like a sports car, it just looks like it wants to go fast.  Unfortunately, it is limited by the motor to which it is attached; namely, me!

In fairness, my red hummingbird is not my only love. My garage is filled with these lightweight little toys.    I also ride a silver/aluminum Cannondale which is substantially more stable (...if somewhat slower).
And then there is my first love; a 1984 OLMO Nuevo Super Sprint that I've ridden since my early days in the sport. It is metal.  It is "ChroMolly" (which is to say a composite of Chromium and Molybdenum that was cutting edge back in the day).  It was mindbendingly light in it's time.  Today, like it's rider, it would be judged as disturbingly overweight.
It is Italian (red, of course) and has the "old-school" Campangnolo shifters.  It has leather pedal straps.  It is, to use a kind word, idiosyncratic.  To ride a bike of this vintage today is to ride a WWII Jeep (with manual transmission) as opposed to an AMG Mercedes (with automatic transmission).  Ever-reliable, yet hopelessly outclassed.   But she was my first.
I road her for years past her prime, until in 2005, I was involved in the MS150-mile trek from Houston to Austin.  As I passed a group of younger riders, they all inhaled with deep admiration and said, "Great retro bike, Dude!"
There are those moments when you must come to grips with the harsh reality that you may outlive your loved ones.  This was one of those moments.
OLMO, darlin' you'll always have a piece of my heart...