I rode my stationary bike today and this is what I thought as I peddled…

I decided my rusty bicycle deserved one more glorious tour of Glen Ellyn, mostly because my doctor said I needed more exercise and my wife said my bike belonged in a museum. I rolled down Main Street with all the confidence of a Tour de France champion at about half the speed of someone pushing a shopping cart.

Every stop sign felt like a negotiation with my knees, and every hill looked suspiciously steeper than it had in 1959.

I turned onto Crescent Boulevard, where a cheerful jogger called out, “Looking good!” I thanked him, although I’m fairly certain he was talking about my vintage bicycle. Crossing Park Boulevard, I proudly rang my little chrome bell at a flock of geese near Lake Ellyn, expecting them to politely move aside. Instead, they stood their ground enforcing their territorial imperative driving me into a slow tactical retreat. Determined not to let wildlife ruin my reputation, I pedaled along Forest Avenue, where a squirrel sprinted past me carrying an acorn and somehow managed to look contemptuously at my pace.

By the time I reached Pennsylvania Avenue, I was breathing hard enough to qualify as a wind instrument, but I refused to quit. I coasted triumphantly back toward downtown, convinced that everyone admired my athletic determination. In reality, a little kid pointed at me and asked his mother if I was “one of those antique cyclists.” She smiled kindly and said, “No, honey, that’s just what perseverance looks like.”

I turned back to Lake Ellyn to finish my ride. As I rolled to a stop at the edge of Lake Ellyn, the water settled into a perfect mirror, reflecting the athletic field, the quiet bleachers, and the green tree line beyond. Rising above the trees, as it has for generations, stood Glenbard High School, its English Collegiate Gothic silhouette commanding the crest of Honeysuckle Hill. The great tower reached skyward, lead-lined windows caught the light, and red brick framed by Bedford limestone gave the building the timeless dignity of a place built not merely to educate, but to endure.

Looking across the lake, it was impossible not to feel the pull of memory. The familiar hallways echoed with the voices of classmates who became lifelong friends and teachers whose patience, wisdom, and encouragement shaped the course of our lives. It was a fitting place to end the ride—not simply at the finish of a trail, but at a landmark where the past and present meet, reminding me that while the miles eventually come to an end, the places that help define us continue to stand, steadfast and welcoming, waiting just beyond the trees.