I Forgot How To Have Fun

How a $150 used bike reminded me what I'd been missing

A used road bike I bought for $150 changed my life.

That sounds dramatic. But hear me out.

I used to mountain bike as a teenager. I loved it. Not competitively — I never won anything. I just loved being on a bike. The speed. The air. The feeling of covering distance under your own power. I’d ride for hours after school, no destination, no plan, just riding until it got dark.

Then I got injured and stopped cold turkey. For years after that, I didn’t ride at all.

Instead, I spent my twenties in a gym. Then a home gym. I was skinny — 135 pounds at 6 feet tall — and I wanted to change that. So I got obsessed with building muscle. Pull-ups. Push-ups. Progressive overload. Protein tracking. The whole system.

And it worked. In a few years, I gained over 40 pounds. I looked better than I ever had.

When Everything Became A Tool

But somewhere along the way, everything became a tool.

I worked out not because I enjoyed it, but because I wanted to get jacked. I stopped playing sports because “cardio kills gains.” I read books not because I loved them, but because I wanted knowledge to build my business and my “personality.” I stopped going outside except to commute to work and buy groceries.

Every part of my life had a purpose. An outcome. A reason. Nothing was just... for fun.

I didn’t notice the shift at first. Nobody does. You don’t wake up one morning and think “I’ve forgotten how to enjoy things.” It happens slowly. One sport dropped. One evening spent inside instead of outside. One more hour on the couch watching YouTube instead of riding your bike in the sun.

I had everything I was supposed to want. Good health. Good job. Good friends. Good girlfriend. But something felt hollow. Like the color had been draining out of everything for years and I only just noticed the grey.

Then six months ago, I saw a used road bike online. $150. I don’t even know why I bought it.

50km Through The Fog

The first ride, I decided to visit my parents. They live about 50km away, flat roads through the countryside. I hadn’t ridden seriously in years. It was probably stupid to start with a 50km ride. I didn’t care.

It was early November. When I left, the fog was thick. I could barely see 100 meters ahead. Cold air. Grey sky. Just me and the road.

I was slow. My legs felt heavy almost immediately. My body had forgotten what this was.

But as the first hour passed, something happened. The fog started to lift. The sun came through, slowly at first, then all at once. And suddenly I was in the open countryside with a beautiful sky above me, music in my ears, and nothing around me but fields and silence.

I wasn’t tracking anything. I wasn’t optimizing anything. I wasn’t doing it for calories or cardio or content.

I was just pedaling.

And I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Lightness. Like there were no problems. No goals. No metrics. Just me and the road and the sun and the air on my face.

I felt free.

The last 30 minutes were miserable. My quads cramped. I had no energy left. I was grinding out every pedal stroke just to make it home.

But when I finally arrived at my parents’ house, I stood there with my bike and thought: I did it.

Not “I burned X calories.” Not “I hit my cardio target.” Just: I did it. I rode 50km through the fog and the sun and I made it.

I missed these kinds of adventures. I didn’t even know I missed them until I was back on that bike.

The Hollowness Started To Fill In

That ride broke something open.

I started craving that feeling. The freedom. The movement. The sense of doing something hard and pointless and beautiful.

I reduced my home workouts to twice a week. I still like looking good and being strong — that didn’t disappear. But it stopped being the only thing.

I started running during the week. Not to burn fat. Not to hit a pace target. Just to move. I started cycling and hiking on weekends, two or three hours at a time, exploring roads I’d never been on.

My mental health shifted in a way I didn’t expect. The hollowness started to fill in. Not all at once. But week by week, ride by ride, run by run, I started feeling like myself again. Like the version of me that used to ride his bike until it got dark.

I’ve never felt more athletic in the past five years. Not because I’m stronger — I was stronger two years ago. But because I can actually do things. I can ride 50km. I can run 10km. I can hike for hours. I can help a friend move on Saturday and go for a long ride on Sunday.

I thought fitness was building muscle and losing fat. How wrong I was.

Fitness is moving. Fitness is enjoyment. Fitness is freedom.

I think a lot of people are where I was a year ago.

Everything optimized. Everything purposeful. Every hour accounted for. And underneath all of it, a quiet question they don’t want to ask: when did I stop having fun?

I’m not going to tell you to buy a bike. Or start running. Or go for a hike. You already know what you used to love. You already know what made you feel alive before everything became a tool.

You just stopped doing it. And you probably told yourself a very reasonable story about why.

I did too. For years.

Then I spent $150 on a used bike, rode 50km through fog and sunlight, and remembered what I’d been missing.

Less screen light. More sunlight.