Being on a bike in my family was really not a choice. I was immersed in the same way a child is submerged in language. My education was as thorough as any fanatic could ever hope to produce –– perhaps not with the rigidity of the madrasa, but with the absolute thoroughness of any cult.

Thanks to my bike, I began to assume Yes. Yes, I can go. Yes, I will get there. Yes I will deal with the problems. Yes, I took these things for granted, and yes I began to assume that I had a right to move freely through the world. I don’t regret this arrogance.

I rolled up to their house some 270 miles richer and with back to back century rides in the bag. This was the eternal family car ride on the interstate laid out in cycling terms. I could now measure it in turns of pedals, back roads, shady hideaways, whispering rivers, and long climbs.

At times, it was too much. I recall days dreading how I would bake in the afternoon sun or how the driving headwinds blasted through the river valleys. I didn’t always get out the door, but apparently I went often enough.