Two Feet, No Wheels

A story about bicycles I never learned to ride and the walks that replaced my sprints

I grew up on my own two feet. Literally. I never learned to ride a bicycle until two years ago, so I ran. If a friend or classmate was willing to race, I was in. Often I didn’t need an opponent; a parked car down the road was enough. I would sprint toward it, then pick maybe a shop a little farther away and keep going. The faster I ran, the less anyone (including me) noticed that I couldn’t balance on two wheels. Speed became a cover, but it also became a genuine source of joy. I felt light, capable, untouchable.

Somewhere around eleventh grade that phase just faded. There was no big decision. Exams piled up, afternoons filled with other things, and the habit slipped away. I can’t remember the last proper sprint I did after that. What replaced it was walking—first because it was practical, later because it felt right.

Walking is slower, obviously, but it offers room to think. Indoors I’m surrounded by screens that beg for attention every few seconds. Outside, the phone stays in my pocket, and my thoughts finally get some airtime. Problems that seem tangled on the couch start to loosen after a kilometre on the road.

A few years ago I added podcasts to the mix. I can’t sit in a chair and listen; my body insists on moving. So the routine is simple: earphones in, door out, one episode, one loop around the neighbourhood. By the time the closing music plays, I’ve logged a few thousand steps and picked up a handful of new ideas. It feels productive without the usual pressure to “be productive.”

There’s a bonus I hardly thought about until recently: eyesight. Most of my day is spent staring at something less than an arm’s length away. When I’m outside, I finally look at things in the distance—trees at the end of the street, clouds, a bus turning the corner. It’s a small reset for eyes that spend far too long locked on a phone.

I’m not that kid who tries to outrun motorbikes anymore. I just walk. It keeps me reasonably fit, clears my head, feeds my curiosity through other people’s conversations, and maybe even slows down the march toward stronger prescription lenses. Running once proved a point; walking helps me drop the need to prove anything at all.

That feels like progress, even at a slower pace.

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