Like many American kids, I grew up on a bicycle. It was the way we navigated the planned, sidewalk-free development in suburban Maryland that was my home, circa 1970. With bikes, we could easily get to the neighborhood pool, where we spent almost every summer day, parent-free. Bombing down hills, cutting through backyards, riding over grassy mounds, we gained confidence and resilience. I went from child to adulthood on two wheels, working up from a Raleigh three-speed to a 10-speed Motobecane.
Years later, as a student at Middlebury College, I learned what a real bike ride was. From campus, the roads in every direction opened my eyes to the beauty of Vermont; my favorite was Route 23 through Weybridge.
Eager to see more, I took a year off between my freshman and sophomore years and traveled with my bike and panniers to New Zealand, where I spent three months riding through some of the most spectacular landscape in the world. I had learned to fix my wheels, too, working a brief stint as a mechanic at the bike shop in Middlebury. Subsequent trips to Nova Scotia and Brittany convinced me there is no better way to see — and smell and hear — a place than from atop a bicycle saddle.
I can’t recall when I stopped biking, but I do remember why. I can’t ride as far as I used to. After about 20 miles, my right knee starts to hurt. The problem — which translates to “painful knee syndrome” — has no cure. Furthermore, I know way too many people who have died on bicycles or had accidents that changed their lives forever. Instead of adjusting my expectations, I used a version of my favorite age-equals-wisdom argument to convince myself that it wasn’t worth the risk. I came to the conclusion that I was too old to participate in a form of exercise and recreation I used to love.
Meantime, my partner, Tim, a longtime runner, is just discovering cycling. Sporting new wheels, he’s been out almost every day this spring as the Vermont hills turned from mauve to green. A week or two ago, he proposed that I join him for a short ride on the Burlington Greenway. He pumped up the tires on my bike, a 15-speed I bought decades ago from my business partner, Pamela Polston, and did everything else but ride the thing for me. Although stiff and outdated, the gears still worked, and I remembered what to do with them.
What I’d forgotten almost entirely was the joy of cruising along on two wheels under my own power. The feel of the warm air on my face. The sound of birdsong. The satisfying correlation of effort and speed. Biking away from cars, on a designated path, made the whole endeavor feel safe. My knee held up for the duration, and in the end, I wondered: Why did I ever stop doing this?
Two weekends ago, we went across the U.S.-Canadian border to Granby and cycled 20 miles into the Parc National de la Yamaska, through forests and alongside rivers and reservoirs. There are more than 5,000 kilometers of bike paths in Québec — La Route Verte — and Canadians know what to do with them. En route we saw people on scooters and in motorized wheelchairs. At least half were on electric bikes. It’s not always obvious — until you’re passed on the left by a nonagenarian.
In short, biking has changed since I gave it up. I’m glad I rediscovered it in time for summer. Mountain biking may not be in my future, but more rail trails just might be.
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This article appears in May 17-23, 2023.
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