Rico Lighthouse
New Member
“Papa, which hill shall we ride today?”
This is the first question I am asked every morning. Fynn is ten now, he has autism, and his favorite thing to do is ride up and down hills. Any hill, every hill. He loves hills.
“I don’t know, which hill do you want to ride?”
“How about Bingham Hill?”
“Sounds like a plan” I say.
I was hoping he’d say that. Bingham Hill is both of our favorites. It’s nearly a two mile climb on it’s east side, with a good little drop in the middle to give you a break and help you gain momentum right when you need it most.
We stop here and take a drink of water, take in our surroundings. Bingham Hill crosses over Reservoir Ridge, passing through farmland and fields littered with giant red sandstone boulders and rabbitbrush. It’s a beautiful place.
We get back on our bikes and start up the last leg, the steepest part of the hill. At one point you're climbing up a 21 degree slope. Two road bikers pass us coming down the hill, flying 30 miles an hour with smiles glued to their faces. One of them gives Fynn a thumbs up. This gives me more joy than I can articulate. Most of the time when I take Fynn out in public he doesn’t get a thumbs up. He gets stared at, he gets whispered about, he gets told to watch where he’s going. He surprises people, he catches people off guard. He bothers people. Most people don’t know how to act around kids with autism, especially older kids. But when he’s riding he’s not autistic, he’s just a kid on a bike.
Bingham Hill is a popular destination for cyclists wanting to push themselves, or test their limits. When they see this kid climbing one of the longest, toughest hills in town, on an entry level (read, heavy) 24” wheeled bike, smiling and pedaling for all he’s worth, it almost unanimously makes people light up. It encourages them, it gives them hope.
We make it to the top of the hill and stop for a rest. There’s a little park up there and we sit for a minute and take in the view. The valley to the west is filled with galloping horses. There’s a stream meandering through it. Clouds are building up over the mountains. To the east, the city of Ft. Collins sits on the plains, going about it’s business. We’re tired and happy. We see a couple of cyclists coming up the west side of the hill, the steepest part. “You can do it!” Fynn yells.
As is typical for many kids with autism, Fynn has more energy than he knows what to do with. When he doesn’t have an outlet for it, it consumes him. He bounces off the walls, he bumps into things, he bumps into people. He runs around, he gets loud and repetitive. He finds a phrase and says it over and over again in a voice that sounds like nails scraping on a chalkboard. Cycling is a relief valve for him. It gives his energy a healthy outlet. It allows us to do things that other people take for granted, like have a conversation. We ride to beautiful places, we get exercise, we make memories. We enjoy life.
“Well, ready to go down?” Fynn says.
“Let’s do it.”
We get back on our bikes, check for cars, and start the descent down the west side. This is the steepest part, and after the first curve we’re flying 30 mph, yelling Woohoo! It’s a little scary seeing your kid going so fast on a bike, I’ll admit. But it feels like absolute freedom.
“It feels like your on a roller coaster” Fynn says, after we stop at the bottom, “It feels like you’re flying.” His eyes are glowing, his smile’s a mile wide. He is, at this moment, pure joy.
When we first got into the autism world we were met with a lot of negativity. A lot of “can’ts.” A lot of “you will never again...” A lot of “your kid will never...” A lot of advice. A lot of ways to fix the brokenness that is your child. It was frustrating, intimidating, and overwhelming.
When I talk to people about autism the question that always comes up is “What kind of therapy do you do?” My answer to that question is we ride bikes. It’s simple, it’s effective, it doesn’t cost hardly any money, I don’t need insurance to cover it, and it’s what Fynn wants to be doing anyway. And it’s what I want to be doing. I love riding my bike with my son. It’s not just therapy for him, it’s therapy for me. So much of Fynn’s growth, of the hurdle’s he’s overcome, the ways he’s grown and the things he’s learned, is a direct result of riding a bike.
Seeing him in moments like this, at the bottom of a hill, chugging water, his face aglow, I think back on those early days, when our world was “autism” and all the things we can’t do, and I feel a bit triumphant. We did it. We overcame the world of autism. Yes, Fynn is still autistic. Yes, he still has challenges, and meltdowns, and frustrations. But he’s living his dream. How many of us can truly say that?
We get back on our bikes and start up the hill for our return trip. It’s super steep, so we don’t talk. We reach the crest and keep going, gaining speed as we zip down the east side. We stop pedaling and let gravity take over. We pass one of those signs that tells you how fast you’re going. It reads 27 mph.
We ride into town and stop at the tea shop for a cookie and a cup of tea. We sit at a table and talk about our ride, talk about the weather, talk about whatever. This simple act of sitting at a table in public with my son is something that was impossible before we started riding together. If you have a kid with autism you know what I’m talking about. I don’t take this moment for granted.
Back at home he gets on youtube and watches a video about people riding E bikes up some of the steepest streets in the world. “Hey Papa,” he says, “we gotta get some E bikes, then we can ride up any hill we want to.”
“Ok” I say, “let’s do it.”
This is the first question I am asked every morning. Fynn is ten now, he has autism, and his favorite thing to do is ride up and down hills. Any hill, every hill. He loves hills.
“I don’t know, which hill do you want to ride?”
“How about Bingham Hill?”
“Sounds like a plan” I say.
I was hoping he’d say that. Bingham Hill is both of our favorites. It’s nearly a two mile climb on it’s east side, with a good little drop in the middle to give you a break and help you gain momentum right when you need it most.
We stop here and take a drink of water, take in our surroundings. Bingham Hill crosses over Reservoir Ridge, passing through farmland and fields littered with giant red sandstone boulders and rabbitbrush. It’s a beautiful place.
We get back on our bikes and start up the last leg, the steepest part of the hill. At one point you're climbing up a 21 degree slope. Two road bikers pass us coming down the hill, flying 30 miles an hour with smiles glued to their faces. One of them gives Fynn a thumbs up. This gives me more joy than I can articulate. Most of the time when I take Fynn out in public he doesn’t get a thumbs up. He gets stared at, he gets whispered about, he gets told to watch where he’s going. He surprises people, he catches people off guard. He bothers people. Most people don’t know how to act around kids with autism, especially older kids. But when he’s riding he’s not autistic, he’s just a kid on a bike.
Bingham Hill is a popular destination for cyclists wanting to push themselves, or test their limits. When they see this kid climbing one of the longest, toughest hills in town, on an entry level (read, heavy) 24” wheeled bike, smiling and pedaling for all he’s worth, it almost unanimously makes people light up. It encourages them, it gives them hope.
We make it to the top of the hill and stop for a rest. There’s a little park up there and we sit for a minute and take in the view. The valley to the west is filled with galloping horses. There’s a stream meandering through it. Clouds are building up over the mountains. To the east, the city of Ft. Collins sits on the plains, going about it’s business. We’re tired and happy. We see a couple of cyclists coming up the west side of the hill, the steepest part. “You can do it!” Fynn yells.
As is typical for many kids with autism, Fynn has more energy than he knows what to do with. When he doesn’t have an outlet for it, it consumes him. He bounces off the walls, he bumps into things, he bumps into people. He runs around, he gets loud and repetitive. He finds a phrase and says it over and over again in a voice that sounds like nails scraping on a chalkboard. Cycling is a relief valve for him. It gives his energy a healthy outlet. It allows us to do things that other people take for granted, like have a conversation. We ride to beautiful places, we get exercise, we make memories. We enjoy life.
“Well, ready to go down?” Fynn says.
“Let’s do it.”
We get back on our bikes, check for cars, and start the descent down the west side. This is the steepest part, and after the first curve we’re flying 30 mph, yelling Woohoo! It’s a little scary seeing your kid going so fast on a bike, I’ll admit. But it feels like absolute freedom.
“It feels like your on a roller coaster” Fynn says, after we stop at the bottom, “It feels like you’re flying.” His eyes are glowing, his smile’s a mile wide. He is, at this moment, pure joy.
When we first got into the autism world we were met with a lot of negativity. A lot of “can’ts.” A lot of “you will never again...” A lot of “your kid will never...” A lot of advice. A lot of ways to fix the brokenness that is your child. It was frustrating, intimidating, and overwhelming.
When I talk to people about autism the question that always comes up is “What kind of therapy do you do?” My answer to that question is we ride bikes. It’s simple, it’s effective, it doesn’t cost hardly any money, I don’t need insurance to cover it, and it’s what Fynn wants to be doing anyway. And it’s what I want to be doing. I love riding my bike with my son. It’s not just therapy for him, it’s therapy for me. So much of Fynn’s growth, of the hurdle’s he’s overcome, the ways he’s grown and the things he’s learned, is a direct result of riding a bike.
Seeing him in moments like this, at the bottom of a hill, chugging water, his face aglow, I think back on those early days, when our world was “autism” and all the things we can’t do, and I feel a bit triumphant. We did it. We overcame the world of autism. Yes, Fynn is still autistic. Yes, he still has challenges, and meltdowns, and frustrations. But he’s living his dream. How many of us can truly say that?
We get back on our bikes and start up the hill for our return trip. It’s super steep, so we don’t talk. We reach the crest and keep going, gaining speed as we zip down the east side. We stop pedaling and let gravity take over. We pass one of those signs that tells you how fast you’re going. It reads 27 mph.
We ride into town and stop at the tea shop for a cookie and a cup of tea. We sit at a table and talk about our ride, talk about the weather, talk about whatever. This simple act of sitting at a table in public with my son is something that was impossible before we started riding together. If you have a kid with autism you know what I’m talking about. I don’t take this moment for granted.
Back at home he gets on youtube and watches a video about people riding E bikes up some of the steepest streets in the world. “Hey Papa,” he says, “we gotta get some E bikes, then we can ride up any hill we want to.”
“Ok” I say, “let’s do it.”
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Happy shopping! If your son gets upset with change or when something doesn't work, you might find it helpful to get a bike from a local bike shop that has great warranty support and might provide loaners if something needs fixing. 
