Back in the day, a bicycle was freedom. It was far more than a way to get from here to there.

We treated our wheels the same way our dads and big brothers treated theirs. Well… at least I did. I grew up watching my old man in the driveway on weekends, tinkering with his cars. Washing them by hand. Making sure they didn’t just look good—but ran right. Cars weren’t just machines… they were part of the fabric of our family.

My bicycle became that for me.

I’d flip it over onto its seat and handlebars like I’d seen him do, turning it into my own little garage project. I even had a pouch—my pouch—with the tools I needed to keep it dialed in. Tires checked, rotated. Air pressure always on point. The chain? Off, cleaned, oiled, back on like new. Bearings, joints—anything that moved got attention. Every bolt tightened. Nothing overlooked.

And when it was all done, I’d give it one last once-over with a rag… step back… and there it was.

Ready.

Freedom on two wheels.

Anywhere I needed to go, the bike was the means.

Most of the other kids in the neighborhood treated their bikes like lawn ornaments. Left them sprawled on the ground, never cleaned, only noticed when something broke. Inevitably, they’d end up at our house asking my dad for help. “Mr. Velez, my bike is flat. Can you help?” or “Mr. Velez, my handlebars are loose. Can you fix it?” And always, my dad would—smile intact, wrench in hand.

That’s how I learned. I became his self-appointed apprentice. There was no better way to learn than to watch a pro in action… and get your hands on it.

We rode our bikes anywhere and everywhere, for almost any reason.

Trips to the local little league field to play ball. Everyone else would hop off before even stopping completely, leaving their bikes sprawled like fallen soldiers. Not me. I’d prop mine against a wall or flip it onto its handlebars and seat, giving it the respect it deserved.

Riding to the store, I’d park it in the bike rack like it was meant to be. On the way back, grocery bags carefully hung from the handlebars to keep the balance just right—a trick I perfected running the largest paper route in the city for nearly a year. Occasionally, a watermelon would sneak along for the ride, tumbling like a suspiciously loyal sidekick.

And then there were the countless rides with the neighborhood bike gang. A mini Hells Angels: no motors, no weapons, no agenda… just us, racing, jumping curbs, feeling alive—and occasionally pretending to be villains in some low-budget action movie.

Every now and then, the ride was just for the ride. Most of the crew never experienced this—or at least, not that I remember. I’d sometimes jump my bike and ride with no destination in mind, letting the path take me wherever it wanted. 

First stop was always the Circle K for a lemon-lime Slushee with three saladitos thrown in for an added edge. There, the ride from there became one-handed until the drink was gone—because nothing says mastery like gripping a bike with one hand and a hyper-sweet, mildly spicy Slushee in the other.

I explored the city: downtown streets, the northern outskirts winding past endless agricultural fields, visits to the Bravo Ranch in the east, treks out to the Heber Dunes a few miles farther. Lonely backroads stretched past onion fields, lettuce, watermelon, cantaloupe, and alfalfa. 

Every now and then, a watermelon would hitch a ride home with me, tumbling in my handlebars like it belonged there—probably judging my pedaling technique.

Sometimes I had company; other times, it was just me and the world.

Of course, there was the paper route. And school. It was the bike to school up until I got my first car my senior year. And not every day, but often enough. Skateboards were a thing. Eventually so were inline skates. But those never quite had the allure of a two-wheeled chariot.

The world has changed, but kids haven’t. Today, they roll in packs of electric scooters, weaving through school parking lots like wannabe Hells Angels, engines whirring, phones dangling, playlists blasting. It’s all about speed, swagger, and Instagram footage—an entourage to McDonald’s is the pinnacle of a day’s adventure. There’s strategy now, rules even: which route to take, who leads, who posts the best story.

Back in my day, we had bikes. Real bikes. No motors, no charging cables, no app notifications. We had freedom and chaos in equal measure. We were explorers of asphalt jungles, masters of curb jumps, purveyors of high-speed chases down alleys.

Our missions didn’t need a destination—they were the destination. The Heber Dunes? A pilgrimage. The paper route? Training for endurance, patience, and the occasional adrenaline spike when the dog from two streets over decided to chase us down.

We didn’t need a Bluetooth speaker to define our tribe; the scrape of tires on pavement, the whoop of laughter, and the occasional near-collision were soundtrack enough. We didn’t plan expeditions to impress; we rode because we could. A gang meant loyalty, skill, and knowing that if your chain snapped on the way home, a friend’s bike would carry you the rest of the way.

In hindsight, the scooters feel like miniature highways of control, while bikes were instruments of total rebellion—joyful, exhausting, slightly dangerous rebellion.

The kids today might have the thrill of speed, but we had the thrill of possibility.

I guess what this story is really about goes back to having the freedom to be a kid—living on the edge, so to speak. Just being able to be, without the pressures of having to be something else for likes or approval.

No story to curate.
No false persona to live up to.
Knowing full well that if something happened, you were essentially on your own… but still knowing you’d be okay.

There was something special about that freedom: to figure things out on your own, to explore and discover with your own eyes, to build genuine memories.

An experience all your own.

A life shaped by curiosity, courage, and a little chaos.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.