I grew up in the 70s, which meant that, when it came to amusing ourselves, we were on our own. We might have needed the occasional parent signature to play football (football required the notorious “turn your head and cough” doctor’s visit, which always seemed so unnecessary—I think they were really just testing our resolve to play football—if you wanted to play bad enough to go through THAT, then you obviously wanted to play) or little league, but after giving a signature, my parent’s role in the process was over.

It was up to us to remember our game schedule, get our equipment sorted and get ourselves to the game by whatever means necessary. For most of us, the means of choice was a bicycle, loaded down with bats, balls, gloves and cleats—and often ridden with one hand because you needed to hold your bat on your shoulder (back then, we didn’t have access to bungee cords, which we could’ve used to attach our bats to our top tubes—bungee cords were rare and exotic accessories that were used for important tasks like keeping malfunctioning cooler lids shut—and we couldn’t be trusted with such an important technology). Due to this need to haul equipment, we developed a fine sense of balance on our bikes, we were circus performers that pedaled our way to football fields and baseball diamonds.

But bikes weren’t only used as substitutes for pack animals, they were also our sole means of transportation. Once one learned to ride a bike, walking was simply out of the question. Bikes were faster and expanded our range of operations. We could now choose from up to four Oky Dokys for our candy needs. Our choices were only limited by our willingness to exert ourselves.

We would assemble at predetermined locations and set off in packs, usually with the goal of finding an unused stretch of woods for a fort or discovering for something to burn. Looking back now as a father in the era of helicopter and snowplow parents, I cannot believe the amount of freedom we had. We were set loose and told to return in time for dinner, without inquiry as to where we were going or who was accompanying us. We just left the house, met up and went forth to find adventure.

My parents had no idea who I was associating with (although they always seemed to find out what we were up to, it seem their forensic skills were much better than their preventative skills), they never met the parents of the kids I was cavorting with, in fact, I never met the parents of the kids I was cavorting with, because it wasn’t important to meet them. We were on our own. It was up to us to amuse ourselves, and we were in charge of our own safety—if any of us should happen to get hit by a car, it was our fault—we might even have to work to pay off any dents we made when our bodies bounced off the grills of the four wheeled land-schooners of the era—but it was a small price to pay for complete freedom.

Alas, these day of unfettered childhood freedom are gone. The world has changed. Parents are more involved in their children’s lives, for better or for worse. I still have the desire to meet up with children of the 70s on bikes and look for adventure—we call our meet-ups “group rides” now, and while we don’t look for anything to burn anymore—we still don’t tell our parents where we’re going.