Joy of Bicycling

Somewhere along the way, we forget how simple joy can be.

For me, it came back on two skinny tires and a creaky old bicycle seat.

I was never what you’d call a serious cyclist. No flashy jerseys, no carbon fiber obsessions, no stopwatch clipped to my handlebars. I rode because I needed to breathe again—literally. After lung surgery back in 2007, the doctors encouraged movement, and I discovered that pedaling forward had a way of coaxing air back into places that had forgotten how to stretch. One mile turned into five. Five turned into ten. Before long, I was riding twenty-five, sometimes fifty miles at a stretch, marveling that this old body still had surprises left in it.

My longest ride to date is sixty-five miles. I remember finishing it not with a triumphant fist pump, but with a quiet smile—the kind you carry inside, the kind that doesn’t need witnesses.

Over the years, my wheels have worn familiar paths. I’ve ridden the Tennessee Riverwalk more times than I can count, gliding alongside water that seems to move at its own thoughtful pace through Chattanooga. There’s something about that trail—the way the river keeps you company, the way the city never quite interrupts your thinking—that makes miles disappear without asking permission.

And then there’s the Chief Ladiga Trail, which has a personality all its own. It carries you from Anniston, through Jacksonville and Piedmont, before quietly slipping across the state line and becoming the Silver Comet Trail. I’ve always liked that part—the idea that without fanfare or fuss, one road simply becomes another. Life does that too, if you pay attention.

I rode those trails in seasons of strength, when my legs felt willing and my lungs felt generous. I rode them when my thoughts were tangled and when they were clear. On a bicycle, problems seem to lose their sharp edges. You still carry them, but they ride in the back basket instead of sitting square on your chest.

I won’t pretend things haven’t changed. After a coronary artery bypass a few years ago, my riding slowed down—then mostly stopped. The bicycle waits patiently now, leaning where I left it, as if it understands that rest is sometimes part of the journey. Still, I feel the pull. I yearn to hit the road again, to let the trail unspool ahead of me and remind my body of its own quiet competence.

There is a particular peace that settles over me when I’m on a bicycle. It’s not excitement. It’s not adrenaline. It’s the steady agreement between breath and motion, between effort and reward. It’s the feeling that for a little while, everything is exactly where it ought to be.

I’m seventy years old now. I spend more time on the couch than I’d like to admit. But there’s still time. I can feel it. One of these mornings, I just might swing a leg back over that frame and head out toward the trail again.

My soul needs it.
And my old body—well, it wouldn’t mind the exercise either.

Late Life Learning

 Coming Home to Old Ground and New Stories

I've settled in for the evening with a cup of coffee gone lukewarm because I got to thinking again. That happens a lot these days. My mind wanders, doubles back, takes the long way around. And I reckon that’s a fine way to learn.

People like to say learning is for the young. School desks. Fresh notebooks. Sharp pencils. But what they don’t tell you is how sweet learning can be when you come to it later in life—when you’re not chasing grades or proving anything to anybody. When you’re just curious.

For me, that curiosity led me right back home to Leeds.

I’ve lived a lot of years, worn a lot of hats, and traveled a fair stretch of road—but there’s something about learning the story of your own hometown that settles you. Leeds isn’t just where I grew up; it’s a place layered with iron, rail lines, creek water, and quiet perseverance. Turns out, I’d been walking past history my whole life without stopping to listen.

I started small. Reading. Asking questions. Standing still in places I used to rush past.

Take the Leeds Depot. For years it was just there—a building you noticed without noticing. But once I learned about the trains that rolled through, the people who waited there, the lives that arrived and departed on those rails, the place changed. It wasn’t quiet anymore. It hummed.

I also found myself drawn to the darker, half-forgotten places—the old coal mines scattered through the hills, the long-gone brick yard out at Lola City, and stories of the Red Diamond mines that once burned underground, smoldering for years like the land itself was holding its breath. These weren’t places you’d find on a postcard, but they mattered. Men worked there. Families depended on them. And even now, when you stand nearby, there’s a feeling that the ground remembers.

And those old rail tunnels—cut straight through Coosa Mountain and Oak Mountain—well, those got under my skin. Dark, cool, and patient. Dug by hand, by grit, by men whose names don’t always make it into books. You walk near those tunnels and you can feel the weight of time pressing in from all sides. They don’t ask for attention. They wait for it.

 Learning about those places reminded me that history isn’t always neat or pretty—but it’s honest, and it’s ours.

The funny thing is, the more I learned, the more my imagination got restless.

Facts turned into questions.
Questions turned into what ifs.
And before I knew it, history had tipped me right over into storytelling.

I didn’t set out to write fiction. Not really. But late-life learning has a way of unlocking doors you didn’t even know were there. I found myself scribbling scenes instead of notes, characters instead of dates. Places like Leeds—its rails, its quarries, its quiet back roads—started asking to be remembered in a different way.

That curiosity turned into five published books. Five stories rooted in place, memory, and the unseen threads that connect people to land and to one another. And now, believe it or not, there’s a sixth one on the way. Still feels strange to say that out loud.

What I’ve learned from all this is simple:
Late-life learning isn’t about reinventing yourself. It’s about re-encountering yourself.

It’s about standing in a familiar place long enough to finally hear what it’s been trying to tell you all along.

So if you’re feeling that little nudge—toward local history, old photographs, forgotten buildings, or stories you’ve never tried to tell—lean into it. Take the slow road. Ask the questions. Sit with the answers.

You never know what might come walking out of the past to meet you.

Ashville Rising is Live on Amazon!

I’m sitting here with a cup of coffee and a heart that’s beating a little faster than usual—because today is the day.

Ashville Rising is officially available on Amazon, both in paperback and as a Kindle eBook!

This story has lived in my head and on scraps of paper for longer than I care to admit. It started with a simple “what if” while driving down Highway 411: what if the land beneath these quiet Alabama towns remembers more than we do? What if there are secrets buried under courthouses and old stage roads, and it takes a handful of regular kids—grease under their nails, doubts in their hearts—to keep everything from shifting too far?

That “what if” grew into Makaley, JD, Dezi, Sean, and the lantern-lit world of the Handyman’s Guild. It’s Southern Gothic with a touch of urban fantasy, set right here in the ridges and valleys we call home—Ashville, Leeds, the Cahaba, and places that feel like neighbors even if they’re just down the road.

I’m proud of this one. It’s about listening—to the ground, to history, to the people who held the line before us. And it’s about what happens when new hands finally take their turn.

If any of that sounds like your kind of story, I’d be honored if you’d grab a copy.

📖 Paperback and Kindle now live on Amazon: Ashville Rising by Ronald Howard

Reviews mean the world to a new author, so if you read it and it resonates, please consider leaving a quick note on Amazon. And of course, feel free to drop a comment here or message me—I’d love to hear what you think.

Thank you for coming along on this ride with me. Writing this book has been its own quiet adventure, and seeing it out in the world feels like the ridge finally exhaling.

Until the next story,

Ron Simple Contemplations

Re-Inventing Myself?

 

The Strange Notion That I Still Need Reinventing

Lately, I’ve been carrying around an odd and slightly illogical feeling—that at seventy years old, I still need to reinvent myself.

That sentence alone feels strange to write.

After all, by most measures, I’ve already done more “reinventing” than anyone ought to be required to do at this stage of life. I’m retired. I’ve started four YouTube channels. I’ve published five paperback books. Somewhere along the way, Facebook and Instagram decided I qualify as a content creator, which still makes me laugh a little every time I see it.

In reality, I don’t feel like a creator of content at all.

I feel like a simple old man with a camera in his hand, a head full of stories, and a quiet hope that something he leaves behind might matter to someone someday—even if only a little.

That’s the part that doesn’t always make sense. By all reasonable standards, I should be content. I have a loving wife who still puts up with me. Two wonderful children. Four amazing grandchildren. And now three great-grandchildren who are already teaching me that time doesn’t slow down just because you want it to.

I am rich in the ways that actually count.

And yet, here I am—writing blog posts, filming videos, editing photos, telling stories—still chasing the feeling that there’s something more I’m supposed to do.

Maybe it isn’t reinvention at all. Maybe it’s just leaving breadcrumbs.

I still love photography. I still love the quiet moment when the light is just right and the camera feels like an extension of my hand. I still enjoy filming videos, even if I fumble through the words or ramble longer than I intended. I still enjoy writing, not because I think it will change the world, but because it helps me make sense of my own small corner of it.

Perhaps what I’m really trying to do isn’t to become someone new—but to be a little more visible before I’m gone. To leave behind a few stories, a few images, a few recordings that say, “I was here. I noticed things. I cared.”

That may not be reinvention. It may simply be reflection.

At seventy, I’m not chasing fame or relevance. I’m chasing meaning—however modest it turns out to be. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it always was.

I don’t really know what more there is to say.

But for now, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep taking pictures. I’ll keep pressing the record button. And I’ll be grateful for the life I’ve already lived, even as I quietly try to leave one more small mark on the world—before the light fades and someone else picks up the camera.

If any of this sounds familiar to you, you’re welcome to share your thoughts. I enjoy hearing from fellow travelers, especially those a few miles further down the road.

—Ron Howard
Simple Musings