I am a son of Mother Nature

“I am a son of Mother Nature.” It's a bold claim, isn't it? Sounds rather grand, like I should be wearing a loincloth and conversing with squirrels. In reality, my connection to Mother Nature is less Tarzan, more… guy on a slightly rusty bicycle. But that, I've discovered, is a connection nonetheless.

My relationship with Mother Nature isn't forged in epic wilderness expeditions or daring climbs. It's built on the humble act of cycling, specifically on pre-loved, slightly eccentric bicycles. You know the kind – the ones with a history, maybe a bit of a wobble in the wheels, and definitely a story to tell (if only they could talk).

My current steed, a vintage 26-inch mountain bike affectionately nicknamed “Rusty,” is a prime example. I acquired him from a garage sale for the price of a decent pizza. He came complete with faded paint, a bell that only rings when it feels like it, and a chain that occasionally expresses its displeasure with a dramatic squeak. But Rusty, despite his quirks, is my chariot to Mother Nature's doorstep.

Unlike the modern cyclist clad in Lycra and obsessed with Strava times, my cycling is less about sport and more about… well, just being. It's about feeling the wind in my hair (when I remember to take my helmet off), the sun on my face (when it's not raining, which, let's be honest, is a bit of a gamble), and the occasional bug in my teeth (a less desirable but unavoidable consequence).

My connection to Mother Nature happens on these simple rides. I'm not conquering mountains or setting speed records. I'm meandering through parks, along quiet country roads, and sometimes, if I'm feeling adventurous, down the occasional (gentle) hill. It's during these journeys that I feel a sense of belonging, a connection to something larger than myself.

I see the changing seasons reflected in the landscape around me. The vibrant greens of spring, the lush foliage of summer, the fiery hues of autumn, and the stark beauty of winter – all witnessed from the saddle of my trusty, rusty bike. I smell the damp earth after a rain shower, the fragrant blossoms of spring, and the crisp air of winter. I hear the birdsong, the rustling leaves, and the gentle hum of the world around me.

And let's be honest, sometimes I also hear the aforementioned chain squeaking, a reminder that my connection to nature is often mediated through a slightly temperamental piece of machinery. But even the mechanical hiccups become part of the experience. A roadside repair with a borrowed wrench and some muttered curses becomes a mini-adventure in itself, a reminder of the ingenuity and resilience that we share with the natural world.

Using second-hand bikes adds another layer to this connection. It's a form of recycling, a way of giving new life to something old. It's a rejection of the consumerist cycle of constantly buying new things, a small act of defiance against the throwaway culture that has become so pervasive. Plus, let's face it, it's cheaper. And when you're on a tight budget and trying to connect with nature, every penny counts.

So, while I may not be wrestling bears or living off the land (though I have considered foraging for wild berries on occasion), I am a son of Mother Nature. My connection is a humble one, forged on the pedals of a used bicycle, a connection built on simple observation, quiet appreciation, and the occasional roadside repair. And you know what? It's a pretty good connection to have. Even if my bell only rings when it feels like it.