What the Bike Remembers

Cycling, joy, and the things that make us feel like ourselves

I've been spending a lot of time with a little girl on a bicycle.

Sometimes she's flying down a hill in flip-flops, hair blowing behind her. Sometimes she's sitting proudly on a new bike, one hand on the handlebars and a grin on her face.

She's me.

Or at least, she was.

I've been getting reacquainted with her while finishing Cycling Shorts, my next book. She appears throughout its pages, usually reminding me of something I've gotten very good at forgetting as an adult.

She knew what felt good. She didn't need a reason to ride. She didn't call it exercise. She wasn't tracking miles. She wasn't riding to become healthier, stronger, more productive, or a better version of herself. She rode because riding made her happy.

And I've been wondering when that stopped being reason enough.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learn to replace this feels good with I should.

• I should exercise.

• I should be productive.

• I should say yes.

• I should use my time wisely.

• I should finish that project.

• I should be doing something useful.

• I should be further along by now.

Even the things that bring us pleasure can become something we feel compelled to justify. A bike ride becomes exercise. Reading becomes personal development. Rest becomes recovery so we can be more productive tomorrow. A hobby becomes a side hustle. A quiet morning becomes a carefully curated routine designed to optimize the rest of the day.

Apparently, we're very good at turning pleasure into performance. I know I am.

But lately, I've been thinking about something much simpler. Noticing.

Paying attention to:

• What makes me smile.

• What makes me lose track of time.

• What makes my shoulders drop.

• What gives me energy.

• What makes me curious.

• What I want to linger over instead of rush through.

• What simply feels good.

For years, my bicycle quietly disappeared from the center of my world. I hadn't only stopped riding. I'd lost touch with the version of myself who felt completely at home on two wheels.

I didn't know that then. Life had simply gotten louder. Eventually, after an injury interrupted more than two decades of running, a friend suggested I try cycling again.

So I bought a used bike. And something happened that I hadn't been looking for.

I recognized myself.

Not immediately, perhaps. And certainly not in some dramatic, movie-montage kind of way. But there I was again. Standing on the pedals during a sprint. Finding another gear on a climb. Settling into the rhythm of a long ride. Flying down a hill and feeling that familiar rush of wind and freedom.

Oh. There I am.

Maybe that's one reason I've kept coming back to the bike all these years. It reminds me to pay attention. Not to who I think I should be. To what lights me up.

That's something I wrote about in Cycling Shorts too: things began to shift when I started paying attention to what lit me up, and what didn't. The bike wasn't teaching me how to achieve more. It was teaching me how to become more myself. 

I'm beginning to think joy can do that. Pleasure can do that.
Maybe they aren't frivolous things we earn after the important work is finished.
Maybe they're information.
Little breadcrumbs. Clues.

Not every good feeling needs to become a life decision, of course. Sometimes a piece of cake is just a really good piece of cake. But I wonder how often we dismiss the things that make us feel alive because they don't seem important enough. Or productive enough. Or practical enough. Or because somewhere along the way, we became much better at asking What should I do? than What feels good to me?

I don't think the answer is to abandon responsibility and spend our days chasing whatever makes us happy in the moment. I think it's simply to notice. To pay attention when something inside us softens. Or sparks. Or laughs. Or wants to stay a little longer. To notice the people, places, activities, conversations, ideas, movements, and moments that make us feel a little more alive. A little more free. A little more like ourselves.

Maybe we don't need to turn any of it into a plan. Maybe we don't need another self-improvement project. Maybe we don't need to reinvent ourselves at all. Maybe every once in a while, we just need to pay close enough attention to recognize ourselves when we show up.

And say, Oh. There I am.