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.