The question isn’t whether to use AI. It’s which setting.

I ride an e-bike around Buffalo. The sweet spot for me isn’t maximum power. It’s enough to flatten the hills without forgetting I’m still pedaling. The bike helps, but I’m still doing the work. Lately, I’ve realized that’s almost exactly how I think about AI.

If you’ve never been on an e-bike, “pedal assist” works like this: a sensor feels you pedaling, and the electric motor kicks in and adds power. You’re still pedaling — the motor just multiplies what your legs are doing. My bike has five levels, zero through five, controlled by a little display on the handlebars. Zero means no help at all. One and two give you a gentle push. Three is cruising. Level four does most of the work for you. Five, and you’re barely pedaling.

There’s also a twist throttle. When the stoplight turns green, and I need to get up to speed fast, I twist the throttle for a few seconds, accelerate, and let go. I’m back to pedaling.

I’ve been thinking about AI and writing, and I keep coming back to that dial.

The wrong analogies

People describe AI writing tools as a ghostwriter, an intern, a calculator, or a replacement. All of those put someone else on the bike: you hand over the work and wait for it to come back. That’s not what’s actually happening when a writer uses AI well.

An e-bike keeps you on the bike. You still steer. You still read the road. You still decide how hard to push and where you’re going. The motor changes how the hills feel, not where you ride.

The dial

Most arguments about AI writing are stuck on whether to use it. That’s the wrong question. The right question is which setting.

Zero. No assist. You can still ride that way. But everyone else has motors now. You can do it, but you’re choosing to climb hills unassisted while others aren’t.

One and two. The motor kicks in just enough to keep you from quitting on that hill, but you’re still doing most of the work. Your legs still get exercise and build strength. This is where serious writing belongs when the piece matters. And — this is the part some schools are missing — this is where struggling kids belong. Assist, not replacement.

Three. You’re cruising. You’re covering ground. Routine emails, memos, and the blog post you don’t need to reinvent. There’s nothing wrong with three. Not every ride has to be training.

Four. Motor-dominant. You’re barely pedaling. Useful when the deadline is real and the stakes are low. But dangerous if it becomes your default.

Five. Passenger mode. You’re not cycling anymore. You’re being carried. It feels great. But it builds nothing. And it’s barely yours.

The throttle

Separate from the dial, there’s the throttle. Burst power for stuck moments.

You’ve written the opening four ways, and none of them start right. You’re stuck. Twist. Get the draft moving. Let go.

You need fifteen headlines to pick from. Twist. You’re not writing headlines now — you’re choosing one. It’s a different skill.

The transition between two sections won’t come. You’ve stared at it for twenty minutes. Twist. Get something on the page. Rewrite it in your voice once the momentum’s back.

The throttle is honest in a way that level five isn’t. Level five pretends you’re still cycling. The throttle doesn’t pretend anything. You felt yourself twist it. You let go on purpose. You know the motor did that part, and you know you’re back on your own now.

That’s the difference between a tool and a crutch. A tool, you pick up and put down. A crutch, you forget you’re leaning on.

Kids

Writing isn’t just a skill. It’s the main way kids learn to think in sequence. It’s how they hold an idea long enough to put it in order, to notice when a sentence doesn’t say what they meant, to feel the difference between a word that almost fits and one that does. You don’t build that by approving AI drafts. You build it by struggling with your own.

So the stunting risk is real. Give a kid a motorcycle and call it a bike, and they’ll never develop strength in their legs.

But the help side is bigger than people are admitting.

Think about what actually stops a struggling kid in school. Rarely is it ideas. Usually, it’s the fear of the blank page. A teacher who sees the work only twice a week. Feedback that arrives three days late and says “good job.” Struggles with spelling or grammar shut down the actual thinking before it even starts.

An AI tutor that never gets tired, never sighs, never grades — that gives patient, in-the-moment feedback and asks “what did you mean here?” instead of writing the fix — that’s not a shortcut. That’s the thing lucky kids got from a patient parent or a gifted teacher. Most kids never had it.

The dyslexic kid who’s been told for years that his ideas are weak because his spelling is weak. The ESL student whose thinking is sharp but whose sentences keep coming back in red. The shy kid who won’t raise her hand but will argue with a chatbot about whether her opening works. These kids have been losing to a system that couldn’t coach them. Level one or two, used right, could change that.

The curriculum design question is the whole ballgame. An AI that asks questions builds a writer. An AI that supplies answers replaces one. Schools will get this wrong in both directions — some will ban the bike, some will hand out motorcycles. The winners will be the few teachers who figure out the coaching version and set the dial to two.

The real skill

The writers who’ll do well in this era aren’t the ones who pick a setting and stay there. They’re the ones who know the whole dial.

Hard piece that matters? Drop to one. Do the work.

Grocery list content on a deadline? Crank to four. Move on.

Stuck at a light? Twist the throttle. Get up to speed. Let go.

The skill isn’t avoiding AI. It isn’t embracing AI. It’s knowing which ride you’re on and picking the setting that matches.

And checking, now and then, that you’re still pedaling.