I remember the exact moment it hit me. I was crouched in the grass next to this beat-up old mountain bike, the kind you see leaning against a shed for five years before someone finally digs it out for a ride. The tires were flat, the chain was stuck solid, and the grips looked like squirrels had been chewing on them. The guy who brought it to me—late fifties, work boots, kind eyes—he said, “I know it’s nothing fancy, but she still gets me to work.” And right then and there, I realized: his bike, that old rust-speckled thing, was probably doing more good in the world than half the $5,000 carbon dream machines I’d seen that month.

See, we’re living in this strange time where bicycles are caught up in an arms race. The big companies want to sell you the next thing—lighter, sleeker, 13-speed, wireless, electronic, integrated-this, proprietary-that. They act like every year your bike gets a little more obsolete, even if it still rolls just fine. And the thing is, it works. I used to fall for it, too. I’ve chased upgrades like a dog after a squirrel—frames, cranks, cassettes, bottom brackets that saved me three grams and cost me a month’s rent. I thought maybe if I had the right gear, I’d finally be fast enough, strong enough, good enough.

But here’s what I’ve learned after working on thousands of bikes and talking to just as many riders: most folks don’t need a better bike. Their bike is already better than them. And that’s not meant as an insult. That’s the best news I could give someone.

You wouldn’t believe how many people roll up to my stand at the farmers market and apologize for their ride before I even touch it. “Sorry, it’s just a Walmart bike,” they say. Or, “It’s old—I know it’s probably junk.” I stop them every time. I tell them, “Look, if it gets you where you’re going and it makes you smile, it’s already perfect.” And I mean it. That $140 big-box special you’re riding to work every day? It’s doing more than some $7,000 boutique build that sits in a garage waiting for perfect weather and a Strava segment.

The truth is, most of us—myself included—aren’t riding anywhere near the limits of what our bikes can do. You’ve got people swapping out cranksets to save a quarter pound of weight, while their tires are underinflated, their chain is dry, and their seat’s too low. And I get it. The marketing is powerful. It’s polished. It makes you feel like if you just buy one more thing, then you’ll be a real cyclist. But that’s a lie. You’re already a real cyclist the moment you ride. Whether you’re on a ten-speed from 1987 or a single-speed cruiser with a milk crate on the back.

I’ve had the fancy bikes. I’ve ridden the Di2 drivetrains, the featherlight carbon frames, the wheels that cost more than some folks’ entire rides. And you know what? Not one of those made me fall back in love with riding. What did? A quiet ride down a tree-lined path on a steel-framed road bike that creaked a little when I stood up on the pedals. The wind, the breath, the rhythm of the pedals—that’s where the magic lives. Not in the gear.

These days, I spend most of my time fixing bikes for regular folks. People with families, jobs, real lives. People who ride because it’s fun, or because it’s their only ride to work, or because it reminds them of who they used to be. And I see so much shame around these bikes, like they’re not good enough. It breaks my heart, because I know exactly where that comes from. It’s not them. It’s the machine behind the machine. The industry that tells you a 3-pound frame makes you worthy, that you need to upgrade every season to stay relevant.

But the real secret is this: good enough is already more than enough. Your bike is fine. In fact, your bike is probably great. And once you let go of the need to chase perfection, you start riding differently. You stop worrying about cadence and wattage and grams, and you start noticing the color of the trees. The sound your tires make on a gravel path. The grin on your kid’s face when you’re riding side by side. That’s the stuff that matters.

So here’s my advice, from one rider to another: take the bike you’ve got, pump up the tires, wipe off the chain, and go for a ride. Forget the gear you don’t have. Forget the parts they say you need. Just ride. Let the ride remind you that it was never about the stuff—it was always about the motion. And the freedom. And that feeling you got when you first learned to balance without falling over.

Don’t wait until you’ve got the “right” bike. Don’t wait until your ride looks like something from a glossy ad. You don’t need lighter. You don’t need faster. You don’t need newer.

You just need to ride.

And remember—your bike is already better than you. And that’s exactly how it should be.

– Dan the Bike Man