I Just Wanted One More Ride

Last night, I wanted to ride my bike. Not the sensible, hybrid I have hanging in the garage; my “adult” bike that was adjusted and fitted for me. No, I want to ride the bike I had when I was 10: my purple, J.C. Penney, single-speed Stingray with the banana seat and chopper handlebars.

That bike meant the world to me, at a time when the world was simple and fun; when my biggest issues in life were, “Will the dentist find a cavity on my next visit?” and “Do I have enough money saved up to buy the new John Denver album?”

That’s the bike I wanted to ride last night.

Because that bike represented a time of simpler things. It meant freedom: to ride to the ice cream shop or the playground to play “call-your-field” baseball with whoever showed up. It provided a few minutes of solitude and “wake-up time” as I rode to school, and a time to chill out on the afternoon ride home.

In the summers, I used that bike for transportation and utility, to get me to the local swimming pool, where I spent so many days. (Interesting, since I’m a notoriously bad swimmer). And it took me to my little league practices and games, and also to my first job delivering newspapers.

That bike gave me time to think when I realized there was something about girls that I liked … but it was all so confusing.

Back then, that bike didn’t represent health or exercise or fitness (it did, but that wasn’t on my mind at that time), but rather, something to do on those days when there was nothing to do. We didn’t monitor RPMs, miles traveled, or calories burned, we just rode.

I remember just riding around town with nowhere to be and all day to get there. Yet, I’d always end up somewhere: at the local Woolworths to check out the latest records (including the aforementioned John Denver album), or maybe at a local park, just hanging around, skipping stones or sitting at a picnic table with friends, making up games or just running around.

When I met up with friends on their bikes, we’d race and pop wheelies and do all those other things kids our age did; the things that made our parents remind us to “Be careful.”

And while being careful was rarely top of mind for me, I never had any bad spills or accidents, likely because I knew where safety and danger met and always managed to stay on the right side of that line.

Why do I want that bike back, and why do I want to ride it? In reality, I don’t. What I want––what I crave––is to enjoy the simplicity, the fun and the freedom I had when I was 10, 11 or 12 years old, even if it’s just for a day … or an hour.

I grew up watching 60 Minutes in an era when all my friends were watching Wonderful World of Disney during the same Sunday evening time slot. I wasn’t bitter; I loved 60 Minutes as a kid. I learned so much at a time when things on a national and world level weren’t scary to me but fascinating. And I also knew that most of the things they talked about on that show were for the adults to deal with, and I always figured the adults had things pretty well under control. After all, wasn’t that their job as adults?

But last night, as I watched 60 Minutes as one of those adults who is now expected to have things “pretty well under control,” I was worried, and scared, and wondering what would happen next.

The first story talked about the bird flu (H5 N1 for those of you keeping track at home), and what it could lead to if we don’t get a handle on it … and soon.

The second story was about the growth and evolution of AI, and the massive implications (both positive and negative) it could have on our world.

The third story was about the migration of the Monarch butterfly and the amazing pilgrimage this wonderful, fascinating and beautiful animal makes each year from Canada to Mexico as it struggles amid threats of deforestation and other climate issues that are making it more difficult to thrive and survive.

After the show was over, I didn’t feel like I did on Sunday nights when I was a kid. I felt anxious and mad … and concerned … and scared.

And that’s when I just wanted to get on my bike––my purple, single-speed, J.C. Penney Stingray with the banana seat and chopper handlebars––and go for a ride.

And to once again have that freedom to feel like a kid whose biggest concerns were, “Will the dentist find a cavity at my next visit?” and “I wonder if I have enough saved up for that new Jonn Denver album.”

© 2025 David R. Haznaw