Off the Grid: Happiness is riding a bike

I know I’m supposed to be building a house right now, but I’d much rather be riding a bike. This is true about almost anything, really. Any time my husband informs me of another delay in concrete or plumbers, I pretend to be gravely concerned about project timelines and the fact that I’ll be hanging siding in the snow. Then I go ride my bike.

It’s not just my propensity to procrastinate in favor of pedaling that calls to me. It is that we exist in a world of seriousness necessitated by the inundating media of calamity, crisis, quarantines, candidates, quakes, climate catastrophes, and perhaps this column. The relief offered by some old-fashioned fun is essential. Our pursuit of it may be the only immunological response we have to the current state of affairs. I suppose one could lean on religion. And while I love a good potluck, I’d still rather be riding my bike.

The thought struck me this weekend as I rolled over some rocks and roots in a perpetual upward battle toward an unseen and unimportant goal: the top. I had already tipped over on a corner and bloodied my elbow. My snack was turning into an unrecognizable puck of melted goo in my pocket. My water was low. My Summer of Lethargy was reminding me of my inverse miles-to-muffins ratio. I checked my heart rate, but was sucking too much wind to calculate how close to explosion it was.

Side note: It appears that the “maximum heart rate” is not a cardiac speed limit or land mine of sorts.

Regardless of all this seeming misery, I thought, “There is nothing I would rather be doing right now.”

Bike riding, in all its forms, is a kind of wind-blown reprieve. On this day, the trail wound up the slope of a mountain, shaded by ancient cedars and moss-covered pines, dappled sunlight dancing on the rich soil of the forest floor. There was a breeze that gave the treetops a kind of symphonic hum. Evidence of a heavy huckleberry crop lingered in sunny patches where the towering trunks gave way to alpine field and blue sky. My soul sighed like the trees.

It’s not just the kidney-jittering, adrenaline-promising, white-knuckled careening back down the mountain sort of ride that offers this playful, amnesiac joy. I can tell because the kids doing laps back and forth on my street have the same silly grin.

And when I mount my trusty townie steed – a 1964 three-speed Schwinn Racer – to cruise about these paved streets on trips to the post office, bank and grocery store, I am exposed to a world that is simultaneously larger and smaller, less oppressive and more expansive than the anxious one I imagine in my mind.

Morning sun on my face, I lean into corners, the tap-scratch of my dog’s paws pattering next to me. We three – bike, blonde, brown dog – are a barely audible witness of daybreak flying past porches, yards swelling with summer blossoms, women in their robes fetching the paper, families packing their cars, squirrels hurrying across the street, and some brazen neighborhood raccoons sauntering slowly down sidewalks.

We swerve and serpentine down quiet streets. There are two houses I like to ride by regularly to see how their flowers and yard decor are doing. I imagine their owners are best friend neighbors, one a collector of driftwood and the other a retired florist. I watch the seasons shape their homes, then roll through the nearby park where soccer games take over the fields, children clamber up playgrounds, and silver-haired citizens walk their dogs.

I can’t say if it’s the ease of rolling past the world in an untroubled state of observation, or how riding a bike requires just enough concentration to push the headlines out of my mind. Regardless, it reawakens a precious, childish sense of play and fun to even the most mundane errand. And we could all use a little more joy in our days.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com