Swap the endless doom-scrolling for the open road. Cycling is the perfect escape plan from the addictive grip of social media on our lives.
That bike later came with me to Montreal when I started university, then Toronto for grad school, and even had a brief stint in Ottawa in 2010. It carried me from home to campus and across these cities during the formative years of my early adulthood. I navigated those streets before smartphones and Garmin maps, in a time when my brain was pestered with far fewer notifications and fuelled with idealism about the path I might make in the world. Over the years, it visited bike shops across these great cities, often greeted by initial “hmmm, what exactly is this?” by the local mechanic. But with a smile, they would figure out that actually, she made sense if you listened for what would make her tick. Eventually, she became less and less of a mountain bike, got slicks, a basket and fenders, but something about her still felt strong, free and steady under my feet.
Then, for about ten years, I mostly lived abroad and my beloved bike lived in storage above my parent’s garage. When Hani and I moved to Arnprior in 2021 and started Montu, my bike came with us. My bike mechanic husband, who had seen it all, quickly named her the Frankenbike. It was fitting, because by this point, she really was a cobbled together assortment of parts. That still worked. So although we were starting a bike company, and had an ever-growing inventory of carbon frames and fast builds to ride, I just wasn’t ready to let her go.
After four years, I finally decided to pass the Frankenbike on this fall. I’ve been thinking about why it took me so long to let go of something I was barely using. I knew it wasn’t about the utility of the bike, it was a tiny part the sentimentality of having this constant through so many phases of my life, but mostly it was about what she represented to me, about me. This bike carried me through some major life phases and adventures, as I grew, learned and explored. I was young, optimistic and independent. Those were the years of developing an understanding of who I was and wanted to be in the world. I had many of those ‘aha’ moments riding my bike across the city while contemplating whatever I was learning about, or reflecting on relationships, self and what to do with this great privileged life I had been given.
I was physically more independent during this time of my life. Pre-kids, I trained for marathons and rode my bike to yoga class, actually, I even rode this bike to my Boston-qualifying marathon because it was logistically simpler and I thought it would be a good “warm-up”. Those were the days.
So when it came time to let go of the Frakenbike, it makes sense that I didn’t want to. Here I was, in a completely different life stage – married with two young kids, starting in a new town with a new business. And I think I wanted to bring that 15-25-year-old motivated, optimistic independent me to the table. It was an all-or-nothing, either-or zero-sum game in a way. I wanted to do the things and be the things, that made me feel good and ‘like myself’ in the past, in ways that no longer fit the mold of my present life. I was clinging on, not only to my old bike, but to old conceptions about how I should be training, what I could give to my work, and the kind of social relationships I wanted to have. And don’t get me wrong, these were all great ideas, based on what I knew about myself and what worked for me. But I was stuck on a previous version of myself, without asking if that version was the best for my life right now. And all the while, my beloved Frakenbike had been relegated to storage again because there just wasn’t room for the all of the old and the new in the garage, and in life.
So what happens when we decide to let things go to make space for who we might become? What do we gain when we let go of the past — of old bikes, or old notions of ourselves?
The good news is, I realized that I didn’t have to let go of what the Frakenbike represented- to me, about me. I could move forward with the fundamental parts myself that would adapt and evolve, but always be there.
That’s what I have been focusing on. Do I want to bring my 25-year-old grit, optimism and joy into my 43-year-old life? Of course I do. Can I also bring the wisdom and self-compassion I’ve developed in these years along, and let go of the things that didn’t serve my younger self? I married a man who builds beautiful carbon bikes – can I accept that strong, independent, powerful me, is still those things, but admittedly co-dependent when it comes to the bike mechanics of life? Maybe by leaning into the leaps we’ve made to be standing here together, building a life and a business, I can find a new equilibrium for this phase of my life.
It will always mean movement, training, pushing myself, it’s part of who I am and how I know I need to be in the world. The shape that can take however, will look different this year, and next and the next, as our kids grow and change, and as our lives through us curveballs and periods of peace. But in order to be able to adapt to what’s around the corner, we need to be agile—and with too much baggage, be it old bikes or old notions of who we are, we will struggle to rise to the next challenge. Instead, when we can let go of what is no longer serving us, when we look to the past for inspiration and our own wisdom, it is then that we starting evolving into who we need to be tomorrow.
Also, there is more room in the garage this way, and who am I kidding, the carbon frames are faster.
Montu ambassador Aaron Prasad on the joys of cycling
I like to ride bikes.
I ride for the exhilaration of feeling the wind on my face as I bomb down a hill and for the exhaustion my legs feel when climbing it. Some days I ride because I want to escape life; some days I ride because doing so helps me feel as though I’m really living. I ride to keep in top shape, and to delay the usually inevitable morph into a different shape when I eat too much and don’t ride enough.
I ride because I secretly love the tan lines.
I love that my eyes become wider to take in the passing scenery as my heart rate climbs. I love how I can be breathing in the scent of lilac bushes one minute, and the scent of cow manure the next.
I love that I can get comfy in the drops, go full gas, and feel like I’m at warp speed on the road on my Montu Osiris (yes, that was a rare cycling/Star Trek reference). Other times, I rest comfortably on the tops and meander my way along a dusty gravel trail on my Montu Kopis.
The idea of taking the long way, or the slow way (the latter of which is typically my default) is one that fascinates me. The things I see along the way, the experiences that find me, and the people I meet, usually bring a smile to my face.
And isn’t that what life is about?
On a recent ride I was delighted to find a surprise samosa stop at a random convenience store in a small town. They were great samosas. A great samosa you weren’t expecting to find (especially passing through a small town like this) is the second-best type of samosa—the best type of samosa being the one you know is coming.
These are the moments that add joy to my days. There is a simplicity, even a profundity, in enjoying the little things that come from, and during, an intentional movement practice like cycling. I know people who experience these same things while on a hike, or a run, or something else—the joy of celebrating small victories or experiencing something new that you wouldn’t have if you weren’t going slow enough to notice. I have driven by that same convenience store a dozen times before, for example, never noticing their samosa offerings.
I find a good ride is soothing for the soul, much in the same way that a tough ride can make the soul stronger.
As an aside, for those out there who are vegan (or veg-forward) and fans of samosas, and Star Trek, and cycling, I hope you’ve enjoyed this little write-up. For those of you who aren’t any of those things, I still hope you enjoyed reading, and I invite you to eat more plants. Either way, and no matter who you consider yourself to be, I hope you engage in the beauty that is exploring the long way. For your soul. For your health. For the tan lines.
