I can still see it as clearly as if it were parked in my driveway yesterday: my very first bicycle, a bright red Schwinn with a long banana seat and high-rise handlebars that made me feel, at least in my own mind, like the coolest kid on the block. It was the late 1960s, and in those days a bicycle wasn’t just a toy—it was freedom on two wheels.

Back then, every kid had a bike. Not some kids. Not a few kids. All of us. It was how we got around, how we found each other, how we filled our days. On Sundays, especially, the hours seemed to stretch endlessly in front of us, and we would spend them riding—just riding. We pedaled across town without much of a plan, heading to the park, or the local Carvel for a cone, or to a friend’s house. The destination almost didn’t matter. The ride itself was the point.

After school, we’d grab a quick snack, maybe toss our books onto the kitchen table, and head right back out. Our bicycles were waiting. We’d meet up with friends, sometimes by design, often by accident, and then just roam. There was a rhythm to it … the hum of tires on pavement, the occasional click of gears, the laughter that came easily when you were moving fast with nothing but time ahead of you. We stayed out until it got dark, guided less by clocks and more by instinct, by the fading light and the unspoken understanding that it was time to head home.

What strikes me now, looking........

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