How I learned to ride a bicycle.
I learned how to ride a bicycle at my best friend's house, on her bike. I had my own bicycle at that point, but it had a pair of plastic training wheels fastened to it, and was not up to the task of teaching me the valuable balancing skills and moving-faster-than-a-crawl skills I needed to learn. So, through some agreement or other, I learned on hers.
We were in front of her house, riding our various wheeled toys back and forth on the long driveway that sloped downhill toward the house and then back up to the street in a 'u.' Her father was on hand to supervise, spot, and push where needed. I felt ridiculous. The other kids zoomed around me on roller blades and skateboards and I was struggling to remain upright with both feet on the pedals while someone else's father steadied the bike. Here I was, seven years old - practically an adult! - and I couldn't accomplish simple tasks like riding a bicycle. Beth's five-year-old brother was already better equipped for life than I was, and he hadn't even started kindergarten! The prickling heat of embarrassment rose in my cheeks, and I could feel my eyes watering. I got off the bike, defeated, saying that I was done for the day. I didn't want any more bicycle lessons.
I don't remember how much time passed - maybe a couple of hours, maybe a day - but I do know that somehow, in a quieter moment at that same house, I got it in my head to try again. This time, though, I was going to try it alone. I guess I reasoned that if no one was watching me, I could fuck up as much as I wanted, and I wouldn't have to bear any shame.
I slipped out of the house and into the front yard where wheeled kiddie conveyances were still scattered where they were dropped. I approached the pink and purple bicycle. (Were there streamers on the handlebars? I can't quite recall.) I picked the contraption off its side and wheeled it to one end of the sloped driveway. I threw my leg over the seat, touched foot to pedal, gripped the handlebars, and let go.
I guess someone must have seen me through the window. That, or the parents of the house realized they were missing one from the headcount. Someone - I don't recall who - came rushing out the front door.
"You did it!" that person said, as I zipped by on the borrowed bike. It was the purest experiences I have had of accomplishment, marred only by the embarrassingly big deal that was made of it. While I was glad to hear encouragement and praise from my friend and her family, a part of me wished that no one had seen.
We were in front of her house, riding our various wheeled toys back and forth on the long driveway that sloped downhill toward the house and then back up to the street in a 'u.' Her father was on hand to supervise, spot, and push where needed. I felt ridiculous. The other kids zoomed around me on roller blades and skateboards and I was struggling to remain upright with both feet on the pedals while someone else's father steadied the bike. Here I was, seven years old - practically an adult! - and I couldn't accomplish simple tasks like riding a bicycle. Beth's five-year-old brother was already better equipped for life than I was, and he hadn't even started kindergarten! The prickling heat of embarrassment rose in my cheeks, and I could feel my eyes watering. I got off the bike, defeated, saying that I was done for the day. I didn't want any more bicycle lessons.
I don't remember how much time passed - maybe a couple of hours, maybe a day - but I do know that somehow, in a quieter moment at that same house, I got it in my head to try again. This time, though, I was going to try it alone. I guess I reasoned that if no one was watching me, I could fuck up as much as I wanted, and I wouldn't have to bear any shame.
I slipped out of the house and into the front yard where wheeled kiddie conveyances were still scattered where they were dropped. I approached the pink and purple bicycle. (Were there streamers on the handlebars? I can't quite recall.) I picked the contraption off its side and wheeled it to one end of the sloped driveway. I threw my leg over the seat, touched foot to pedal, gripped the handlebars, and let go.
I guess someone must have seen me through the window. That, or the parents of the house realized they were missing one from the headcount. Someone - I don't recall who - came rushing out the front door.
"You did it!" that person said, as I zipped by on the borrowed bike. It was the purest experiences I have had of accomplishment, marred only by the embarrassingly big deal that was made of it. While I was glad to hear encouragement and praise from my friend and her family, a part of me wished that no one had seen.