In this episode, a return to the struggle.
There comes a point in life when many people decide they've earned a machine to do the hard work for them. Some celebrate retirement with a bright red Corvette—the old ads called it "The American Dream Machine." Others opt for a Harley-Davidson, because apparently retirement isn't official until you've purchased enough chrome to be visible from space.
People have asked me why.
Bicycles have always kept me young. The exercise is good for the body, and the quiet is good for the mind. Unlike a sports car, nobody expects you to explain why a retired guy suddenly needs to go from zero to sixty in four seconds.
Before the e-bike crowd starts sharpening their keyboards, let me confess something: there were several moments on today's ride when I would've gladly accepted a small electric motor—maybe even a medium-sized one.
You see, that hill had other plans.
On Saturday, I picked up my new Crimson Red Trek ultralight—my official retirement gift to myself. At the bike shop, I never seriously considered the electric version. I wanted the simple honesty of a chain, gears, and my own two legs. I wanted every mile to tell me the truth about my fitness, not a battery telling a comforting lie.
The hill wasted no time delivering that truth.
Sweat poured into my eyes, salty enough to season a basket of French fries. My breathing sounded like an accordion in the hands of someone who'd skipped practice for twenty years. The pedals felt like they were turning through wet concrete. Every instinct urged me to stop, pretend I was admiring the scenery, and wait for my pulse to fall below "medical curiosity.”
Instead, I kept pedaling. One more revolution.
Then another. Then another.
Eventually the hill surrendered—or perhaps it simply got tired of watching me suffer.
I coasted into the welcome shade beneath a beautiful tree, unclipped my helmet, grabbed my water bottle, and poured it over my head.
Instant relief.
The cold water hit sun-baked skin just as a gentle breeze wandered through the branches. My body cooled almost immediately, my breathing settled, and something unexpected happened.
The sleek Trek vanished.
Suddenly I wasn't a newly retired man catching his breath on a California roadside. I was a kid again, riding through the humid summer air of Cuba, Illinois.
I could almost feel the weight of my Sting-Ray bicycle beneath me. It wasn't light, and it certainly wasn't fast. But it carried something no expensive bike ever could.
Freedom.
Back then, a bicycle wasn't exercise. It wasn't heart-rate zones, fitness apps, or posting your ride online for people you'd never met to click a thumbs-up.
It was my passport.
It took me down gravel roads that disappeared over the next hill, to hidden creeks, baseball diamonds, fishing holes, and adventures my parents knew absolutely nothing about. The world seemed endless because my bicycle made it so.
Standing there beneath that tree, wiping cool water from my face, I finally understood why I had chosen a regular bike.
It wasn't because e-bikes are bad. They aren't. They're wonderful machines that help people ride farther and longer, and in many cases, ride at all. There's a lot to admire about that.
But there was something I wanted that no motor could provide.
The struggle. Not because suffering is noble, but because sometimes effort earns more than a destination.
That climb made the cool water sweeter.
It made the breeze feel like air conditioning designed by God.
And somehow, without my realizing it, it unlocked a memory that had been waiting patiently for decades.
During my first official week of retirement, I didn't just make it to the top of a hill.
For a few precious minutes, I pedaled all the way back to twelve years old. That's what an e-bike couldn't do. Not because it lacked the horsepower.
Because some journeys have to be earned.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask more questions. I’ll see you On the Fly.
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