Country roads, neighborhood streets

There are two kinds of bicycle rides that stay with me long after I've put my Giant back on the rack: One is the country ride. For me, that often means heading north from Lincoln toward Camp Far West Lake or maybe east-ish and up-ish to Auburn-ish. These roads have hills, open fields and shady asphalt and (if I didn't ride with a talkative group of friends) one's thoughts might become louder than the traffic. The other is the neighborhood ride, spinning through the houses like a wandering dog, where kids play basketball in driveways, dogs bark behind fences, and someone is always mowing a lawn. OK. That doesn't really describe my Sun City neighborhood, but it might describe that of you six loyal readers. We do have leaf blowers. Most cyclists talk about the country ride as though it was the purest form of cycling, and I get it. Out on Riosa Road, a rider can get into a rhythm that seems to change time. The air smells different. You can hear birds instead of those leaf blowers. A tailwind across an open stretch of farmland can make you feel 20 years younger, which still leaves me very old (but it's a cool old). Country riding also gives you space. There are long roads without stop signs. You can settle in and just ride. No interruptions. No traffic lights. No delivery vans backing out unexpectedly. It's the cycling equivalent of a cleansing breath. Even if you ride with a group, there can be a quiet rhythm to get you all up in your Zen. But here's something I've come to appreciate more as I have been forced by life to be in rehab mode and trying to get back in shape. Neighborhood riding has its own kind of magic. It may not come with sweeping views of rolling hills or winding roads along a river, but neighborhood riding is accessible. It begins the moment you leave your driveway. No loading your bike onto a bike rack. No planning. You simply put on your helmet and go. But that simplicity matters. For many people, especially those thinking about getting back on a bike after some time away, the idea of "going for a ride" can feel intimidating. They imagine Lycra-clad riders hammering down country roads at 20 miles an hour. (I wish.) They think cycling requires expensive equipment, special training or a destination worthy of a "Wish you were here" postcard. It doesn't. Some of the rides I've had lately have been slow rides through my extended neighborhood. I've discovered streets and bike paths I never knew existed despite living here for years. I've admired well-landscaped yards and said "hello" to many walking folks. From a bicycle, you notice things that disappear behind a windshield. I'm always looking for a photo op. Neighborhood riding also carries a subtle social value. When more people ride locally, communities begin to feel more human. You see neighbors. Children notice adults riding bikes and begin to think maybe they can and should do it, too. Of course, suburban riding has challenges. There are distracted drivers and busy intersections. But riding close to home teaches awareness and patience. Cycling doesn't have to be epic to be meaningful. The country ride feeds the soul. The neighborhood ride feeds the habit. And habit can change your life. You don't need to conquer mountains or ride 50 miles to call yourself a cyclist. You just need to ride. Maybe this week the country roads are calling you. Maybe all you have time for is a few easy miles around the subdivision after dinner. Both rides count. Both offer freedom. Both remind us the world moves at a kinder pace when experienced from the seat of a bicycle.