Pedal Power

Bicycling has a special place in many of our hearts, often tied to cherished childhood memories that shape who we are. For me, the love of riding began at the tender age of six, thanks to my brother's unique—and admittedly daring—teaching method: sending me careening down a hill toward the side of our garage to bring me "safely" to a stop. As a child, my bike was my gateway to adventure and freedom, carrying me everywhere I wanted to go. Though adult life has gradually taken me away from frequent rides, those vibrant memories of wind in my hair and endless exploration remain vivid. In this post, I 'll share some of these treasured bicycle memories and reflect on the joy of rediscovering that childhood passion.

Mastering how to ride a bicycle is often an exciting rite of passage, and for me, it became a memorable experience thanks to my older brother, Troy. On a bright afternoon, he set me on a bike that was far too large for my size, adding to the difficulty. With a mischievous smile, Troy gave me a shove, and I wobbled uncertainly at the start. Gradually, as I found my balance, the bike accelerated, rolling down the hill toward the garage. Unable to reach the brakes, I crashed into the garage and fell to the ground. Instantly, I stood back up, brushed off the dirt, and hauled the bike back up the hill for another try. After countless bumps and tumbles, I finally managed to ride the bike steadily on my own.

The following Christmas, I was overjoyed to unwrap a stunning orange bicycle featuring a stylish banana seat. Because the snowy conditions in South Dakota prevented outdoor riding, Dad brought the bike down to the basement, where I pedaled it back and forth between the three cement block rooms. When summer arrived, I was eager for adventure and had a license to ride!

During that summer, my bicycle became a faithful companion, guiding me through numerous escapades in Ethan, a town with charming streets shaded by elm trees and neighbors who greeted me warmly. Once I gained enough confidence, I was permitted to cycle a mile out of town to my cousin’s farm, where the aroma of fresh hay and the melody of singing birds welcomed me. The journey wasn’t always easy—gravel paths and dusty trails sometimes tested my balance—but the exhilaration of the wind rushing past made it all worthwhile. I also peddled fearlessly around the one-square-mile stretch that seemed endless beneath the summer sun, passing by three farms with fields of budding crops. These endless cycling adventures were more than just traveling from one spot to another; they were moments filled with discovery, happiness, and a profound appreciation for the simple beauty of my world.

A few years later, I was allowed to ride my bike from Ethan to the nursing home in Mitchell where my mom worked. I would start out in the morning with a canteen of water and a small snack nestled in the basket of my bike. Riding a small bike for thirteen miles along the rural highway flanked by golden cornfields swaying gently in the breeze and under an endless blue sky, offered a serene backdrop that made the journey feel like a delightful escape from the boredom of small-town living. Despite the challenge of pedaling such a distance on a small bike, the peaceful countryside, dotted with occasional farmhouses and grazing cattle, kept my spirits high. Once I reached Mitchell, I had to carefully maneuver the larger town's roads, carefully keeping watch for careless drivers and stranger danger. Once I arrived and watched my mom working diligently and interacting warmly with the residents, I knew the journey had been worth it. The bike rides on my little orange bike taught me independence as well as responsible biking etiquette while connecting me to my South Dakota roots.

When I turned twelve, my small bike no longer suited my needs or fit my growing body. On Christmas morning, I discovered a stunning red ten-speed bicycle waiting for me beneath the tree. Once summer came, I used my bike to travel everywhere I needed to go. I cherished the sense of freedom I felt as I hopped on and pedaled to softball practice, even though it was just a short ride from my home. The steady crunch of my wheels on Ethan’s gravel roads soothed my constantly busy mind and calmed my restless spirit. After practice, I often rode downtown with friends, where we enjoyed pizza and played video games at Ernie’s. Other times, my friends and I set off on spontaneous adventures around town or along the country highways, each journey offering new experiences, friendship, and the pure delight of endless summer days.

Once I landed my first teaching job in Corsica, I knew I wanted a way to stay active and truly get to know my new surroundings, so I decided to bring along my bike. Riding my bike to work each day quickly became more than just a means of transportation—it turned into a refreshing ritual that kept me in shape and energized for the day ahead. Beyond the routine commute, cycling gave me the freedom to explore hidden corners of this charming town, from quiet tree-lined streets to scenic stretches outside of town I might never have discovered otherwise. Each pedal stroke not only strengthened my body but also deepened my connection to Corsica, turning an unfamiliar place into a community I could call home.

I moved next to Vermillion, a delightful college town where I aimed to pursue my master’s degree. Luckily, I took my red bike with me, because I met my future wife, and we decided to go for a bike ride. The memory that stands out most vividly is the simple yet joyful moment of riding my bike behind her, captivated by the rhythmic sway of her ponytail and the way the sunlight caught the curves of her cute butt as she pedaled ahead. The breeze flowed past us, mingling her laughter with the fresh scent of prairie grass, turning that ride into a perfect snapshot of youthful love and carefree moments. With every rotation of the pedals, we grew closer—not only in physical distance but also in the deepening bond that would guide our shared journey for many years. That bike ride through the fields near Vermillion marked not merely a casual outing but the start of a lifelong adventure together.

When Ericka and I packed up and moved to Wyoming, I didn’t think twice about leaving my bike behind; after all, I believed I could easily adapt to the new environment without it. But as the months passed, I realized just how much I missed the simple joy of riding—feeling the wind rush past as I pedaled through familiar streets, the rhythmic sound of tires on pavement soothing my mind. Wyoming’s vast, open landscapes begged for exploration on two wheels, yet without my bike, I was left to experience them only as a passenger or on foot. The freedom and exhilaration that cycling once gave me were unexpectedly absent, reminding me that sometimes, the things we take for granted become the most missed when they’re gone.

Eventually, Ericka and I settled in Omaha, a city that quickly became the backdrop for the next chapter of our lives. Hoping to recapture the carefree joy and freedom I once felt riding through neighborhood streets in my youth, I bought a used bike. The bike, though modest and well-worn, symbolized a connection to those nostalgic moments of endless summer days and boundless adventure. However, as the demands of adulthood and daily responsibilities grew, I found myself too busy to ride as often as I had hoped. The bike stood patiently in the corner of the garage, a reminder of the past and an ever-present invitation to pause, step away from the chaos, and rediscover the simple pleasure of cycling through the gentle streets of Omaha.

About four years ago, I decided it was time to invest in my health after receiving a new heart. On a whim, I purchased Buttercup, a cheerful yellow bike that instantly lifted my spirits. I envisioned leisurely rides along winding bike trails, the fresh air filling my lungs as I pedaled my way toward better shape and renewed energy. Buttercup's bright color seemed to embody the optimism I felt about this new chapter in life—a blend of adventure and self-care. However, when my body began rejecting my new heart, I realized I didn't have enough strength to pedal up the steep hills surrounding my house. Determined not to give up on cycling altogether, I knew I needed a practical solution that would allow me to explore the area without exhausting myself. That’s when I decided to invest in a bike rack for my car. With a rack, I could drive to flatter trails and scenic spots nearby to enjoy leisurely rides without the strain of relentless climbs.

One Christmas, Ericka kindly gifted me a bike rack aimed at making it simpler and more convenient to transport my bicycle. When summer arrived, I was excited to put it together and give it a try. Yet, my excitement soon turned to frustration upon discovering that some vital parts were missing from the box. Without those key pieces, I couldn’t complete the setup, rendering the bike rack unusable for the moment. I contacted both the manufacturer and Amazon, hoping they would promptly send the missing components. After numerous phone calls and prolonged disputes, they finally agreed to send me the necessary parts. By the time they arrived, summer had passed, and autumn was well underway. Irritated, I stored the new parts in a cabinet and resigned myself to waiting another year.

Just yesterday, I was determined to gather all the bike rack pieces and complete the assembly. I quickly found a portion of it in the garage attached to our home, but Ericka needed to fetch the larger section I had partially assembled from the shed. In a moment of panic, I realized I hadn’t placed the ordered parts in the box as I had believed. I searched frantically through the garage, grumbling to myself about my forgetfulness, before finally discovering the parts in the cabinet where I had “safely” stored them a year prior. Feeling confident, I resumed finishing the construction so I could finally enjoy a bike ride.

After I successfully constructed the bike rack, I securely fastened Buttercup to the back of my car, and eagerly drove to the nearest trail. The warm spring air filled my lungs as I pedaled at a steady pace, the tires humming rhythmically alongside my labored, elderly breaths. As I traveled five miles along the twisting path, I took in the diverse scenes that surrounded me. Motivated, breathing hard yet joyful, I rode past peaceful clusters of geese ambling by the water and cheerful individuals engaged in their own outdoor pursuits. The blend of invigorating exercise and the splendor of nature felt like a blessing, each mile marking a small triumph.

Reaching the trail's end, I paused to soak in the quiet beauty—the sun filtering through budding leaves, the gentle ripple of the creek nearby, and the distant call of birds welcoming the new season. In that moment, I realized that despite the challenges, my love for riding had never truly left me. Buttercup, once just a cheerful yellow bike, had become a symbol of resilience and hope. As I loaded her back onto the bike rack, I knew this was just the beginning of many more rides—each one a celebration of life, health, and the simple joy of freedom on two wheels.