“The bicycle is the noblest invention.”

William Saroyan was no dummy when he spat out this little quip. Of my worldly possessions, not one fills a bigger chunk of my psyche than my bike. When I am not riding it, as I walk past it, I’ll touch it almost apologetically as it patiently waits till our next jaunt.

I got my very first set of wheels when I was four — a red-and-white Radio Flyer tricycle. To be honest, the thing I remember most about this beast was playing with the parson’s kids who lived two doors down. We’d take turns flipping the trike up on its two rear wheels and pretend it was a machine-gun. I guess I had a lot of rage in 1974, which didn’t really dissipate until I traded up to a two-wheeler a few years later.

I grew up on a quiet street in Dartmouth, a town famous at the time for having a chocolate factory, a psychiatric hospital and a million lakes. But on Kingston Crescent, my house was somewhat famous: We had what the local kids called a “good driveway.” It was on a short but steep hill that generally had a puddle at the bottom. It was fun to scream down the driveway as fast as we could, blast through the water and make tracks with our wheels. Much to my father’s chagrin, kids were up and down that driveway a lot in the warmer months. Mr. B., the scary dude who lived across the street, parked his truck directly across from our driveway. During one specific run, after rolling down the incline, I missed the turn into the puddle and with my full 50-pound force, crashed into the truck. I don’t remember if he knew, but I remember I didn’t care because he was mean and used to beat up his dog. I was seven. I was wearing pants under my dress. I was a demon. Take THAT, you big bully.

I didn’t become an avid rider until I was 27. I had just come back from a teaching stint outside of Seoul and was recovering from what had been a “character-building” TESL experience. I was super skinny. I was very weak. I needed to rebuild my heart and body and came to the conclusion that cycling to the ocean was going to cure what ailed me. I dragged Sandra Kingsley to the Local Bike Shop, picked up a GT Timberline. I rode that bike to the ocean three times a week, choosing gradually longer routes. A few years later, when I was really broke and about to move to Australia, I traded that bike with Benny Fong for an iPod loaded with music.

Not long after I joined the RCAF, I was posted to a sleepy town with one main street and nothing but country roads for miles. I promptly bought a road bike and started riding even longer distances than before. I was happily riding 50 kilometres one way to go to my favourite eatery for dinner. I was lonely, but I was fit. That same bike saved me from boredom in northern Alberta. I’d start my rides chasing fighter jets as they took off, and 10 minutes later would find myself on a highway that stretched out to Saskatchewan. The only sounds I’d hear were the horses making horsey sounds when they were startled as I’d round a corner, and they’d gallop off in a huff.

My most recent bike is probably my deepest love — a single-speed 29er from Surley called a “Karate Monkey.” I bought this whip in the early spring of 2014 as I was crawling out from an oppressive relationship, living in, sigh, Fredericton. I swapped in some slick tires and have been rolling ever since. This monkey has since taken me for tours of river valleys, rolled out to Peggy’s Cove, cruised along the Thousand Islands Parkway, and helped me to find countless ice cream cones. After all, a ride ain’t legit unless it involves snacks. This summer I know it’ll take me to Tweed and beyond as I train for my next big adventure.

I’ve had other bikes. I’ve actually given more bikes away to people than I care to admit. And, to be fair, while I love riding long, straight country roads, I am not drawn to gnarly trails. But I can tell in no uncertain terms when I stand on solid ground after a long ride, and I’m hot and my whole body is at once vibrating and spent and my legs feel like jello, it’s the only time I feel like a total bad ass. Take THAT, bullies.