“All good things must come to an end.” I thought sarcastically as I banished the snow shovel to its summer home in the garage attic.

Spring had arrived. I walked over to my bike still hanging bat-like from the garage rafters in its winter parking space. I reached up to pull it down thinking I might go for a quick ride. Then, rather rudely, I heard my snarky inner voice. “You’re right. All good things must come to an end.”

When I turned fifty, family and friends began urging me to replace my bike with something more comfortable. That’s polite code for ‘age appropriate’. Every year I laughed off their suggestions as I passed them on the trails. But the truth is, last year I didn’t log many miles on this bike. And now, I can’t bring myself to enjoy a simple cruise around the block.

I had no hesitation giving up my first bike. It was a classic red and white trike with a foot ledge between the back wheels. It could also magically morph into my trusty steed. Initially I could only pedal in reverse, always arriving somewhere backwards. Eventually I learned the kinetics of forward movement. (Early life lessons about perseverance and the advantage of seeing where one’s headed?)

I ecstatically dumped the bike given to me one birthday. I asked for a Stingray bike with a banana seat. My friends all had them – the epitome of cool. I didn’t get a Stingray. I got a Huffy. My eleven year old face couldn’t mask my disappointment. This prompted the parents to respond, “If you don’t want it, we’ll take it back. But, you’re not getting a Stingray.” No apologies, no explanations. Just take it or leave it. I kept the chunky, dorky blue monstrosity.

Decades later, my son would be a benefactor of this earlier perceived injustice. For his eleventh birthday he requested a Haro trick bike, of which the cost caused a memorable heated discussion between his parents. But I stood firm and delivered. When my birthday boy saw his new bike, the sheer joy on his face cosmically righted a long standing wrong. His Haro lives in my garage. I’m saving it for future grandchildren or to sell on e-Bay to fund my retirement.

I accept as you age you need to stop doing certain things. It’s been years since I’ve worn halter tops. I only bust a move on wedding reception dance floors. I no longer eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for lunch. I do not stay out until 2AM on a work night.

But my bike? Must age dictate when to give up my bike?

My bike is a racer with skinny tires and ram-horn handle bars. She’s only thrown me twice and her chain’s given out maybe four times. Her glossy, candy apple red body shows no sign of aging or rust. If only my own body had fared as well over the last thirty five years!

Truth is…I didn’t pull my bike down because I’ve come to terms with the reality that it is probably time to shift gears.

Truth is…I probably don’t look daring or cool or athletic as I ride aerodynamically low and forward in order to hold the ram-horn handle bars.   I probably look like an accident about to happen.

Truth is…my once cat-like reflexes have become more sloth-like and I worry a little about my safety as I maneuver those fast, skinny tires.

Truth is…I haven’t been religious in performing daily (or even annual) reps of squats or  lunges. Therefore my butt can no longer tirelessly balance my bike on a seat that is, at its widest point, 5 inches across.

Truth is…making practical accommodations because you are getting older… just sucks.

What’s a boomer to do? Go bike shopping I guess – I’ll keep you posted.