He thinks I’m crazy, and I think he is too.

For him, economic growth is more important than climate action, and the COVID-19 lockdown measures were the most disastrous infringement on civil liberties in modern history. To me, there’s nothing for the economy to exist in without the climate, and the pandemic response was the greatest expression of the social contract since World War II. He thinks the market is self-equalizing and we need to get out of its way. I believe that, if left unchecked, free-market forces create the kind of drastic social inequities that are fraying Western democracies right now. And pronouns? Well, let’s not get into pronouns.

I find my libertarian friend challenging. There is a gulf between our politics: ideas that have become religious dogmas in our rage-filled world. And yet, when we’re on our bikes, those clashes disappear. In those moments, we don’t experience our beliefs, we experience our values. And that’s an entirely different way to know each other.

We agree that the earth beneath our tires is the biggest bounty in history. That bikes are the greatest invention humankind has ever mustered. And that riding them as fast as we can down mountains is the highest calling either of us has ever felt. We’re in sync about what makes good trails, that mullets rule, and that there are basic tenets of civility we should each hold to. We share a sardonic sense of humor, and the conviction that everything ought to be filtered through it—whenever possible, while riding.

My friend is a patient coach, generous with his technical knowledge, and inspires me to ride harder. He’s reliably always up for a pedal, and never without a smile. He insists friendliness is a virtue, and for all my progressive posturing, puts my dour constitution to shame with how sweet he is—to everyone.