Bicycles used to be everything. In Eastern Ohio, a bike was your Facebook, your Uber, and your group chat rolled into one squeaky, rust-patched masterpiece. No notifications, no Wi-Fi—just the sound of a wobbly chain and a gang of half-feral kids tearing around town like we owned it. We’d ride until the streetlights came on, pick up stragglers along the way, and build entire social networks based on who had the coolest Huffy and who could jump the creek without wiping out. Spoiler: it was never me.

Now? You don’t see kids on bikes. You don’t see them outside, period. The modern “childhood adventure” happens on a glowing rectangle while sitting perfectly still in climate-controlled isolation. If a kid today gets a flat tire, it’s metaphorical—it’s their Wi-Fi dropping below four bars.

Where I live now, the bicycle ecosystem has collapsed into two dominant species: the fitness freaks and the fallen. The first group are Lycra-wrapped, calorie-tracking zealots who look like they escaped from a Tour de France fever dream. The other group… well, let’s just say they didn’t lose their driver’s license for speeding. One group spends thousands on titanium frames and electrolyte gels; the other spends twenty bucks on a Walmart special and a pack of Newports.

What used to be the universal symbol of freedom is now either a luxury accessory or a punishment. The middle’s gone. The innocent joy of flying downhill with no plan and no phone, just air and bad decisions, has been traded for apps, stats, and mugshots.

If I sound bitter, maybe it’s because part of me still remembers when life was measured in tire rotations and not notifications. The world felt bigger back then. Now it’s just smaller screens and smaller adventures.