You know, I've always considered myself someone who's hard to surprise… But bike rides with late-night returns and wrecked wheels turned out to be exactly what I was missing…

Strangely enough, it all started with me fiercely resisting buying a bicycle… I kept thinking, where would I put it, dealing with maintenance and all that. But after I was given a chance to "try it out," I confidently cast aside all doubts and bought a bike!

— Why was I so grumpy before? Because I didn't have a bicycle! But now I'll start being kind right away.

The first rides were easy and rather unremarkable, but even then I began to feel a special kind of excitement from the process itself. I think a big unfamiliar city played an important role, as well as having company I never had before. That feeling appeared — the one you used to get when reading books — as if you're watching someone else's story, and suddenly you find yourself part of it too.

There really was a sense of freedom and serenity…

And here's why, I think, this feeling emerged:

• You're not walking — you're rolling on wheels — which means you can get further, see more, and the speed adds a sense of lightness.

• You're not in a "conditionally" enclosed space like in a car. Everything is open — the wind, the sun, the sounds of the city or nature — everything reaches you directly. This creates that special feeling of connection with your surroundings.

• You have no strict route boundaries. If you want — ride through courtyards, if you want — turn into the forest, or if you want — just roll through the night city with no destination. No "you can't go here," "you can't pass through there," "here's your designated route." Just you and the road — wherever the hell you want.

• And perhaps most importantly — you're not an observer, but a participant. It's no longer just a walk — it's a little adventure, and each time you're writing your own new story.

And here's what else I started noticing — with these rides, not only my attitude toward movement changed, but toward the city itself. It suddenly stopped being just a place where you live. Places I used to just pass by suddenly began to take on their own character — they became routes, points on an adventure map. Every intersection, turn, even an unnamed path — everything seemed to come alive and invite you to turn, explore, ride further.

You're riding, and suddenly you notice: here it smells like flowers, and a couple of blocks later — fresh bread. Somewhere someone puts a speaker on their scooter and rides along the sidewalk to Polish rap. Kids are drawing with chalk. The city reveals itself as a living being — breathing, sounding, glowing.

And people… you start seeing them differently too. Not just passersby or drivers, but fellow participants in this flow. Sometimes someone waves, someone rides alongside, keeps the same speed for a couple of blocks — and suddenly asks what your name is. Just because you happen to be riding through half the city together.

And in moments like these, you get the feeling that you're part of some big, living world where everything is constantly moving, changing, but you don't get lost in it — on the contrary, you find yourself.

And maybe that's the main thrill: you're not just cycling — it's like you're waking up. You start living a bit brighter, feeling a bit deeper, and smiling a bit more often.

I want to share one story that happened to me last summer and stayed with me for a long time:

We rode our bikes to a beach somewhere in the middle of nowhere, left around eight in the evening. Right at the start, while riding through the forest, wild boars jumped out of the bushes — they scattered us pretty good, but it immediately became clear it was going to be fun.

We only reached the place around ten at night. The last stretch — through dense forest in complete darkness, we were collecting ticks and trying to feel our way to this beach. Eventually we found it — a huge sandy wasteland, almost a kilometer from where the sand starts to the water. Absurd, but somehow beautiful in its own way.

We took a different way back, where you could actually ride. One of us hit a rock at speed — tire explosion, two holes. Time — 11:30 PM. We're somewhere in a forest belt, one flashlight, patching up — patches won't hold. We're discussing how to drag ourselves 25 km home.

In the end, we just tightened the damage with a regular zip tie — and, surprisingly, we rode. Through Konstancin-Jeziorna we made it to Kabaty metro station. The night city — a church, silence, streetlights — looked very atmospheric.

We missed the metro, so we rode home until 2:30 AM through empty Warsaw. Complete emptiness, high-rises, strange silence — the city seemed completely different.

Since then, there have been many more rides like this — each one strange in its own way, spontaneous, sometimes exhausting, sometimes full of laughter, sometimes almost philosophical. But each of them left a small imprint in my mind — some smell, sound, road, conversation, or moment when you just stopped and thought: "Right now, this is good. This is what it's all for."

And perhaps the most valuable thing is not the route, not the kilometers, not the photos, but that state you return home with: as if you've become a bit lighter, freer, and closer to yourself.

And it all started with just getting on a bicycle.