Most American kids dream of the day they turn 16. It’s the day they can finally escape the wrath of their parents by having the freedom to drive a vehicle unsupervised.

The freedom to do brake stands, to smoke through a brand-new set of Bridgestones and to do redline transmission drops. The freedom to joyride in dad’s immaculate Mercedes while he’s out of town on business. Even the freedom to wrap that same Mercedes around a telephone pole after trying to impress a few girls walking home from school.

This also is typically the time when bicycles become the forgotten former mode of transportation. They hang upside down in the family garage, collecting dust and rusting away. For most teenagers old enough to drive, the bike usually conjures up memories of riding home from school and getting pelted in the head with a bottle of Yoo-hoo as the “cool kids” drive home in their mom’s shiny new Buick Estate station wagon.

On my 16th birthday, however, going to the DMV was the last thing on my mind. In fact, I didn’t end up visiting my neighborhood DMV until I was 25. For the better part of 10 years, I rode my mountain bike from home, to school, to work and back home again. Most of my friends said I had my head up my ass, which may have been true, but I reaped the benefits of not being dependent on a car. Riding a bike was every bit as liberating as driving a car, not to mention I was in the best racing shape of my life.