This summer I grew deeply obsessed with cycling. A switch flipped in my brain, a switch which completed the connection between knowing I enjoyed riding bicycles and realizing that what I was doing was called cycling. I learned that what I did was more than simply riding my bike; I was participating in sport with an unmistakably vibrant history, tradition and culture. Coworkers began to explain cycling to me. I learned about the Tour, about centuries and sprints, Gran Fondos and Eddy Merckx. I began to daydream about big climbs in the Rockies, cross-continental tours and the thrills of leaning into tight corners on thickly forested back roads. I became strangely aware of how toned my calves were and accepted energy gels as a legitimate source of nutrition. I was introduced to The Rules. I learned about bikes. It’s all about the bike. Your bike must be carbon fiber. Your shoes must be carbon fiber. Your water bottle cage must be carbon fiber. Dura Ace is better than Ultegra. You can’t race with Tiagra. Sora sucks. Aero matters. Geometry must be aggressive. Wheels must be light. Add more carbon fiber. Get a more streamlined helmet. You wear a medium t-shirt? Get an extra small jersey. Add more carbon. Price? Well pick a reasonable number. Got it? Now double that and add five hundred dollars. There you go. That’s your bike.

And you know what? I began to buy into it. Everything I heard, read, and watched suggested that it was all about the bike. That the determining factor of how worthwhile your ride was centered on your segment times, the smoothness of your shifts and the dampening abilities of your carbon fiber frame. Given the amount of fun I had on my heavy old ten-speed, a streamlined carbon fiber x-wing attack fighter bike must be so much better. I mean, it would be lighter! Faster! Stronger! Think of my Strava rank! Sure, losing one kilogram off a frame cost a grand, but hey, didn’t I care about performance? I began bike shopping. At first I stuck to Kijiji and Craigslist. I spent hours scrolling through crap vintage cruisers and CCM hard tails, hoping to find some inexpensive gem of a road bike. When I did find suitable bikes, it never worked out that I could purchase them. Something always got in the way. I was grasping at straws. I really wanted a nice bike. So I went out and bought a new one.

It was totally worth it. The speed was immense. It was nimble and light and efficient. It felt like flying. As I rode, I forgot all about the mechanical parts whirling underneath my spandex clad thighs and focused purely on the speed, the experience, the wind, the road, my cadence. Bombing down the first large hill, pavement a blur in the periphery of my vision, green valley rolling past, gentle curve of the road consuming my thoughts, evening insects bouncing off my uncontained smile – it was incredible. Just incredible. The bike was so good at doing what it was designed to do, so well-engineered, that it faded from my thoughts. All I did was move.

That was my first ride. It took over a month before I went on another one like it. I loved the bike, washed it, shined it, looked at it; but it felt fragile. Like it could only do one thing – go fast on smooth roads. I kept finding excuses to not ride it. It was delicate and expensive. Sure, in perfect conditions it was capable of adding incredible value to a ride, of making something fun turn into something special. But I could never find those opportunities. I was unwilling to take it on anything risky, anything uncertain. I needed to plan out rides, drive to suitable roads and baby my bicycle. I just couldn’t go for a bike ride.

Then I realized it. What had made me fall in love with cycling in the first place?

The answer didn’t lay in efficiency, aero or lightness. No. I fell in love with cycling because of freedom. My old bike had taken me places. I went everywhere because of it. I loved cycling because when I got on that majestic silver ten speed I never knew what would happen. I loved cycling because it brought me to eat burritos on the beach, climb cliffs in the dark, ride beside rivers and smile in the chilly evening air. I loved my bike because of the yellow rips in the saddle and the distinctive buzz the pannier made at speed. I loved cycling because it enabled me to fall in love with the city of Victoria and rekindle my joys for Calgary. I loved cycling because it had a unique flavor and a fantastic character, one that rubbed into me with every passing kilometer.

I didn’t love cycling for any of the reasons I thought I did. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less about the Tour or about carbon fiber or about Strava times. They were cool, sure, but not what mattered. I simply loved riding my bike. And in a weird sort of way, this meant that having a “nice” bike was keeping me from doing the kind of cycling that I loved. What was the point if I couldn’t leave it outside a coffee shop or haul it onto a narrow path by the beach? I had this beautiful machine that stood uselessly in my basement, too precious to be let out on any but the most special of occasions. What I needed was a workhorse that I could smile about all the time; a bike that I could ride every day; a bike with character and personality; a bike that was an old friend. I had one of those already. I had just forgotten.

In retrospect, I’m glad I went through an obsession with the sport of cycling, bought a road bike and took it on a couple incredible rides; only to find it not meeting my needs or expectations. By exploring what I thought I wanted, I learned what was actually important. This isn’t a new idea, but in our tightly constrained lives, where we think there are expectations of perfection everywhere, it can be hard to remember. The bike with the highest value wasn’t the faster, lighter, more perfect, or “better” one; it was the bike I could ride most often. It was the bike that enabled the highest net happiness. Whether it’s a bicycle, a relationship, a dream or a goal, the only way to find out your method of gaining highest net happiness is by going for it. You have to try. You have to mess up. And maybe you’ll learn something about yourself. As Ms. Frizzle said, “Take chances, make mistakes, get messy!” Messy is a great thing to be. Especially if it involves a rusty old ten speed and a chilly evening free to explore a city.