Cycling long distances often feels like a solitary pursuit — just you, your bike, and the miles ahead. But if you ride the same routes often enough, something surprising happens. You begin to notice the constants — a dog that runs to the fence to greet you, a man sitting on his porch with his dogs, a student with a bubble machine playing with her pet.
You don’t know these people or animals. Not really. You don’t know their names or stories. But you miss them when they’re gone.
Why I Ride Familiar Routes
I’m the kind of cyclist who tends to ride the same roads almost every day. Sure, I mix it up depending on distance or wind direction, but the bones of the route remain the same. There's a reason for that. When I’m on a long tour or a tough event, and I’m five miles from the finish, I like to picture where I’d be if I were five miles from home. It grounds me. It’s familiar. And that mental trick helps me push through, even when I’m exhausted.
But riding the same roads also means I start to notice the rhythm of the neighborhoods and the lives that cross mine for a fleeting second each day.
The Little White Dog
Years ago, there was a little white dog who lived at a house along my route. Every single time I passed, he ran to the fence, tail wagging, ready to greet me. I always said hello. It became a ritual. Then one day — he was gone. A few days passed. Still no dog. Eventually, a new dog showed up, and I realized the family had moved. I never knew his name, but I felt the loss of that little white dog like I would a neighbor.
The Bubble Machine Girl
Closer to the Texas Tech campus, I used to pass a row of apartments. On one porch, a young woman sat almost every day with her big dog and what looked like a strange device. I eventually realized it was a bubble machine — something to keep her dog entertained. We never spoke, but she always waved. For two years, she was a cheerful presence on that street. Then one day, she wasn’t there. I assume she graduated and moved on. Still, for a while, I kept hoping to see bubbles in the air again.
The Porch Grandpa
North of town, I passed through an older neighborhood where an elderly man sat on his porch, watching his dogs play. Every time I rode by, I waved. He’d yell out with a booming, “Go get ’em!” Then one day, he was gone. His dogs were still there, but not him. Weeks passed. When he finally reappeared, he looked frail. The loud greetings were gone, replaced with a quiet wave. Then one day, he vanished again — this time for good. I finally stopped and asked a young man in the yard what had happened. He told me his grandfather had passed away. That moment hit me hard. I never knew his name, but I felt like I had lost someone.
David and the Cookie
For the past few years, I’ve seen a young disabled man sitting in a chair in his yard, just a mile from my home. His name is David. At first, we just waved. That became a ritual too. One day, he gestured for me to stop and offered me a cookie. We talked for a while. He told me he once saw me on the other side of town and recognized me. I remember laughing — how strange and wonderful to be recognized just for riding a bike.
A few weeks ago, David wasn’t there. He hasn’t been back since. I keep looking, hoping he’s just on vacation. But I worry. And I miss him.
What These Encounters Mean
I think many cyclists have these kinds of connections. We see people and animals so often that they become part of our ride. They mark the miles, the seasons, and the years. They remind us that even on solo rides, we’re not entirely alone.
We never really know what’s going on in the lives of the people we pass, but we still feel their absence when they’re gone. Maybe that’s one of the secret joys and heartaches of being a regular on the road — we quietly collect these small friendships, and they stay with us long after the ride is over.
Invisible Friendships
I wonder if other cyclists experience this too — noticing the people, pets, and places along the way that quietly become part of your ride. We don’t talk. We don’t know each other’s names. But they’re part of our rhythm. And when they disappear, the road feels a little emptier.
So here's to the little white dog, the bubble girl, the porch grandpa, and David — and all the unspoken friendships we form along the way. I think of you often. I look for you every ride. And I miss you when you’re gone.
Do you have someone or something you see on your ride that you’d miss if it disappeared? Leave a comment — I’d love to hear your story.
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