# The Taxonomy of Confusion

The electric bicycle, or e-bike, is not merely a bicycle with an added motor. It is the definitive modern anxiety machine, a vehicle perpetually caught between being a bicycle and a motorcycle, mandated to carry the weight of both infrastructure requirements and zero-emission piety while simultaneously offering the rider the low-stakes joy of assisted velocity. We have given it names, of course. We must. To define a thing is to try and control it. But the names rarely stick, or they stick differently depending on whether you are crossing state lines or just crossing the street. The regulatory naming system, designed for clarity, has instead created an exquisite form of bureaucratic confusion.

The regulatory framework insisted on a clean taxonomy, giving us the deeply impersonal names: Class 1, Class 2, and Class 3. This numeric designation sounds like something developed in a sterile government lab, which it largely was, an attempt to assign appropriate infrastructure permissions based on the *velocity ceiling*.

Class 1, for example, is the most polite machine—pedal-assist only, cutting off the party at 20 mph (32 km/h). This bike insists you participate. Class 2 retains the 20 mph limit but permits a throttle, which is where the conversation gets confusing; is that cheating, or just excellent time management? The throttle means the motor can propel the machine without any effort from the rider, momentarily transforming the vehicle into something functionally closer to a scooter, but only if the regulatory speed limit is strictly adhered to.

Then there is the outlier, Class 3, the 28 mph (45 km/h) sprinter, which demands participation (pedal-assist only) but grants you access to faster roadways, often forbidding you entry to certain multi-use paths designed for the slower, more leisurely citizen. This tiny, 8 mph difference between 20 and 28 means the difference between being a recreational path visitor and a bona fide commuter. It is a strangely arbitrary line to draw, based entirely on the assumption that a path designed for a 15 mph acoustic bicycle will somehow survive a 27 mph Class 3 machine but absolutely wilt if that machine touches 29. Furthermore, European markets operate under the EN 15194 standard, where the assistance must cut off at 25 km/h (15.5 mph), meaning a Class 3 bike in Oregon might be illegal on a bike path in Munich. The definition is fluid. Dangerous, even, if you value bureaucratic adherence.

Beyond the Numbers: The Marketing Aspiration

Once the regulators finished their work, the market took over, desperate to imbue these utilitarian machines with romance and power. The result is a bizarre lexicon of names meant to suggest ruggedness, speed, or pure electric magic. We move from the sterility of "Class 2" to the evocative, if slightly aggressive, *Grizzly* or the minimalist confidence of *Vado*.

There is an inherent silliness in calling a grocery-getter with a battery a *Super Commuter*, yet we crave that aspirational title. We want our purchase to grant us some imagined athletic prowess, even if the bike is doing all the work. Many brands forgo standard bike geometry names and lean heavily into acronyms and singular nouns—the Tero, the Vado, the Como. What exactly is a Vado? It sounds like an extremely serious Italian beverage or perhaps a very fast small dog. This ambiguity is intentional, allowing the bike to be whatever the rider needs it to be—a car replacement, a weekend toy, or simply the thing that makes the hill less humiliating. The confusing part is that these names rarely hint at the classification. The *Turbo Como* might look slow and plush, but depending on the model year and region, it could be registered and sold as a Class 1, 2, or 3 machine. The name offers zero regulatory insight. It only promises ease.