Second Chances, Finding a Lost Joy Again.

Follow the Blog

Finding a joy in riding again. I didn't even know I had lost!

My bike story started back in the early 1970s, when freedom had two wheels, a banana seat, and a sissy bar.

I rode Sears Roebuck specials (maybe even the occasional Montgomery Ward—or as my parents called it, “Monkey Wards”—special).

I had Schwinn Stingrays, 36/36s, the occasional Huffy, Mongoose, and anything else I could scrape together lawn-mowing, or snow shoveling money for.

Those bikes were everything—transportation, adventure, status symbol, and, if I’m honest, my first taste of true freedom.

I rode everywhere, did every stunt, crashed every way possible, and collected the scars to prove it.

And yes, I loved every minute of it.

Back then, bikes weren’t just transportation—they were freedom. You could zip anywhere in town in about 20 minutes or so.

They were the Instagram, or Facebook post of the day.

The rows of hastily dropped bikes clearly marked the lawn of the house where all your friends were.

Oh, you knew who was where, by the bikes piled out front.

Everyone had a workshop, a shed, a garage—or just used the driveway when needed.

We swapped parts, traded frames, bolted on whatever we could scavenge, and created hybrids that at times you almost needed to tilt your head to figure out what it originally was.

Strange beasts that rode like rockets (at least in our minds).

Some kids always had the latest and greatest, but most of us took scratched-up, beaten-down bikes, stripped the paint, pieced them together, and made them ours.

There was an entire culture built around BMX at that time, and everyone was jumping ramps, doing kickouts, riding wheelies—showing off in any and every way possible.

It wasn’t just about the ride—it was about the tinkering, the bragging rights, and the camaraderie.

Looking back, it was a more personal version of social networking where you could convey status, interest, and who you were with mag wheels or heavy-duty spokes, the coolest handlebars, the newest seat or peddles, and of course the crash pads all over.

(Speaking of peddles, some of us still bear the shin scars of the metal spiked ones. Yes, you know who you are)

By the time we were 14, the shift came—mopeds. (I have a blog on this one)

Suddenly, speed came with an engine, and the bike era faded into the background.

Two years later it was cars and motorcycles, and from there the "garage days" truly began.

(Check out the Garage Days post in the blog catalog)

“Yes, that strange, wonderful time before full-on adult drudgery takes hold. That sweet spot of cars, drive-ins, dates, making money at some part-time job, but before full-on soul-crushing responsibility sets in.”

The instincts we’d honed with bikes—swapping, trading, repainting, cobbling together parts—just carried over.

What started in the bike shed became a way of life in the garage.

The unstoppable march of time brings the inevitable reality of change. For me it was the Army.

For most of my friends, it was, college or regular jobs and families.

Life starts to get in the way in its strange roller coaster of highs and lows.

The bicycles got parked, left in mom or dads' garage or shed for a decade or two, then maybe sold.

For years at a time, I didn’t even think about riding.

Every once in a while, the bicycle came back around—like when I picked up a mountain bike in Germany while serving overseas.

I had miles of trails through the woods and rode from time to time.

But the truth is, decades often passed where bikes weren’t part of my life at all.

Then one sunny day in Virginia Beach, we rented cruisers on the boardwalk. Just a casual ride, nothing fancy—but that old spark came back.

The wind in my face, the rhythm of pedaling, the simple joy of gliding forward.

I realized I’d missed it.

That little taste stuck with me.

A few weeks later I went out and bought us both new bicycles—not fat-tire beach monsters or zippy electric ones, but the comfortable kind that gentlemen and women of a certain age ride.

Now I’ve got long trails close to the house, and I find myself riding much more—sometimes with company, often by myself.

Just pedaling along, listening to music, enjoying nature. It’s an odd mixture of exercise, relaxation, nostalgia, and meditation all rolled into one.

(And yes—the headphones and MP3s of today are so much better than the battery eating Walkman of yesteryear. I said it, I am anti Walkman, hate on me if you want.)

The people you meet on the trails are usually kind—smiling, waving, enjoying the day, but most importantly, leaving you alone.

All in all, it makes me wonder why I ever stopped riding in the first place.

Okay, I know the answer: jobs, diapers, responsibilities, and the fact that wives aren’t nearly as keen on riding on handlebars as they were when they were still girlfriends.

(well, and maybe some of today's tushes wont quite fit on handlebars any longer, but that is a different blog)

Here’s what I’ve learned: getting back on a bike as an adult is different.

Besides the obvious—I don’t look nearly as cool as I did when I was a teen—I’ve realized I don’t need an expensive gym membership to get exercise.

The fresh air is better, and you can’t put a price on the freedom that comes with two wheels.

The rides today aren’t about showing off, chasing friends, or finding new ways to wreck, or adding a new scar or two.

They’re about moving, breathing, and remembering that freedom doesn’t have to be complicated.

It’s a rhythm I’d lost and a rhythm I’m glad I found again.

And in a way, it feels like life itself—periods of motion, periods of pause, and sometimes decades before you rediscover what always made you happy in the first place.

Because that’s the trick of aging. Freedom doesn’t disappear with age, and you don’t always need something new.

Sometimes it’s just two wheels waiting at the end of the driveway, and you just need to dust it off, oil the chain, and take it for another spin.

This is another entry in "Getting Older: Field Notes."

Next up: Watching Our Parents Age—the sobering part of the journey none of us can escape.

Buy Glen a Coffee

If you found yourself smiling, nodding, or remembering your own first ride, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post.

Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills.

Because whether it’s bowling balls or bicycle chains, the journey is always better when we keep rolling along together.