Bicycle, bicycle

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like

— Queen

At 10 years old, I thought ‘Bicycle Race’ was the best song ever. Here was a band on the radio singing about what I loved to do. Could there be anything better?

At that age, a bicycle was not only fun, it was my ticket to freedom. I could ride to a friend’s house or the corner market instead of waiting for my parents to give me a ride. And now a major band was singing about something I knew and loved?

In the years since I first heard Freddie Mercury sing ‘Bicycle Race’ on the radio, I’ve ridden a bike for multiple reasons, from transportation to competition, fun and fitness. Like all long-term relationships, bikes and I have had some big ups and downs. There have been excellent adventures, wins and losses…and I’ve been hit by cars twice with subsequent ambulance rides. And it took me more than a few years to adjust to riding without an agenda after spending the bulk of my 20s wrapped up with competitve cycling (I went from covering professional cycling for VeloNews to writing a bike column for the Pacific Sun called ‘Spin-ster’!). Still, for many years, I rarely went more than a few days without getting on my bike for some reason. Until I moved to Alameda, I commuted by bike. But after a couple of close calls with cars while riding around a then new-to-me town, coupled with declining resilience to such things, I gradually stopped riding with any regularity. My mid-90s Bontrager was at the ready…but I found it just as easy to walk most places on the island… and much easier to get off the island by car.

Fast-forward to last week when I found myself in a sad and dark mood. I had a lot going on (and by this point in life a fair number of tools to adjust my mind), so I didn’t get stuck, but my attitude gave me pause.

On Saturday, I came back to my car after running a bunch of errands and realized I was parked by a local bike shop. I realized I’d barely touched my bike all year.

“Remind me that riding my bike makes me happy!” I recalled telling Kwame the last time I’d taken my bike out for a ride. I’d forgotten.

Instead of getting back in the car, I walked into the bike shop. It turned out to be a veritable museum of classic, steel-frame bicycles, an era of cycling I understood. The proprietor lived, breathed and built bicycles, and we had a great chat about old bikes, exercise and mental health… and the possibility of bringing my old bike back up to speed.

I went home, dusted my bike off, pumped up the tires and went for a spin. Cycling, at this age, it turns out, is still fun. It may even still be a ticket to a kind of freedom.