Lisa Sussman, NNN's Natural Mom, explores the ups and downs of life in the bike lane.

Life from behind the handlebars looks different.

We are a biking family. Although there are only four of us, we have at least six working bikes – just in case. We have conquered every bike path in Rhode Island and done the one on the Cape as well as a few on other continents. My husband often bikes to work in the summer. My children learned how to first sit up in a bike seat (sing up was another matter). The day the kids lost their training wheels was cause for giddy celebration in our house. Graduation to “big bikes” was a three-day fest with The Eagles’ Life In The Fast Lane as our theme song.

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When I was a kid, everyone biked. Parents did not chauffeur us. I’m not sure what they did all day – some worked, some didn’t; but if you wanted to get to school or soccer practice or a birthday party or the library (across a four-lane turnpike), you pedaled there. My sister recalls tearing around on her Stingray knockoff at dusk yodeling, “Liiiiiisssssaaaaa – Mom says diiinnnnnerrrrr!” It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, dry or wet out. If you couldn’t bike, you didn’t go. We cycled everywhere in a huge pack. It was like Easy Rider on Schwinns.

These days, the bike racks at the schools and library in my town are empty. No where else even has a place to park a two-wheeler. The majority of US citizens believe a bike is a toy.  And many a kid is only allowed to cycle if a parent is close at hand (and yes, that sometimes mean child biking and parent tailing them in the car like unkempt secret service agents).

This is a shame because to me, cycling equals freedom.

Let me clarify – this does NOT make me a cyclist. My cousin Joe is a cyclist. Every morning, he hops on his ultralight state-of-the-art bike, pedals 50 miles and is back in his kitchen before his latte gets cold.

I, on the other hand, bike. This means I tootle along on my too-small, too-heavy two wheeler as the mood strikes.

These days, with the price of gas soaring to what seems to be National Debt levels, the mood strikes more and more. I now try to follow the three-mile rule – if my destination is less than three miles from my house, I cycle. I arrived at this mileage total through a complicated series of algebraic formulas: I added up how long it would take me on average to drive three miles, factoring in slow downs and full-stops for traffic, lights and ice cream, added five minutes for finding a parking space and maneuvering my car into it (additional three minutes if the parking is parallel), and two minutes for getting out of my car, locking it, checking in panic that I didn’t lock the keys in the car, returning to the locked car and unlocking it to retrieve my wallet and  tote bag and relocking the car.

The thing I love about cycling is how the world seems that much closer.  It is impossible, when perched on the seat of a bicycle, to ignore the view. In a car, it’s easy. You’re comfortable, cushioned and contained in a temperature- and sound-controlled space. Distracted by traffic and music and phone calls, the outside world is a blur to be passed through to get to my destination.

On a bike, all I have is the view. Sitting high on my saddle, arms stretched out in front of me, I lean into the landscape. Detaching myself from the surrounding environment becomes impossible, as I am no longer apart from it.

For instance, who knew that there was such a big hill leading from my house to main thoroughfare? Or that there were grave markers hidden in the deep grass in the verge by the corner? Or that the brown house had changed its yard into a train depot complete with tracks? Or that the stream that runs along the back of my property segues into a picture-perfect waterfall?

Pedaling up a side road I don’t usually go down, I double back to read a small handwritten sign hanging on the front gate of a nearby house: “Sharing Garden. Help yourself.” I would have missed the free herbs altogether in my car.

From my bike, I can smell the salty scent of the bay as I approach it, the direction of the winds can demoralize or uplift me. The sun warms my back and sudden summer storms leave me soggy and shivering. The birds call their songs to me.

One Monday morning, I saw a turtle trying to cross the road I was riding on. I stopped and helped it across. This past weekend, the kids and I were all pedaling to the post office  but instead turned and biked in the opposite direction for a quarter of a mile to follow behind a red-tailed hawk soaring 50 feet above us, a mouse clutched in its claws. Another day, we got sidetracked by a conglomeration of mushrooms that my daughter insists must be a gnome huse.

On my various rides, I have seen owls resting deep in the woods, deer nervously poking their heads out of bushes, foxes trotting across yards – even a bald eagle once, perched regally on top of an old telegraph pole, too lazy to hunt in the afternoon heat.

Cycling day after day not only puts me more in touch with my environment, but with myself. Each bicycle journey, no matter how short, is also a journey within. I have learned volumes about myself from riding. For example, I will always opt for the least resistance to go uphill and switch over to my lowest gears. I will always coast downhill. I have a tendency to go over objects in the road rather than go around them. I like to flirt with danger and sometimes ride with no hands. And that I prefer the road less traveled – not just because it means is I won’t have to battle with an SUV for space off of the hard shoulder – but because it keeps things surprising.

So the next time you see a cyclist on the road, don’t moan that they’re slowing you down. Instead, move to the side, give a little wave and maybe a little knowing smile: It does not go unappreciated or unnoticed. Thank you. Believe me, we roadies see and notice everything.