Learning to Fall

My first lesson in bike riding came at the age of 5 or so.

My daddy had bought a scooter of sorts, vivid red with white stripes, and training wheels. After supper, he and I went outside to the sidewalk and he began the slow process of teaching me balance, confidence, and paying attention to where I was going. After several nights of instruction and bruised hands and knees, he removed the training wheels and set me on my way and I made it all the way to the old dirt road without falling then crashed headlong into a tree. He came running, his face halfway between panic and pride, trying hard not to laugh or be over concerned, righted me and the scooter and said calmly, Now try again. When I hesitated, he smiled and ruffled my hair. If you want to learn how to ride, he told me, then you have to learn how to fall and get back up again. Not long after that, the red and white scooter was retired to the basement and my first real bike arrived.

It was gleaming metallic blue with black handlebar grips, white stripes and blue streamers, a big bike that would turn time meaningless and distance into nothing. She's too small for it, my mother warned and my daddy just laughed, You grow into a bike, he told her, she'll be just fine.

And after a time I was. There were some tumbles, a few minor collisions, once I skidded to a stop just inches from a fast moving oak tree and went head over heels into a ditch but it was worth it to climb aboard and ride like the wind. None of the broken bones or concussions my mother predicted came to pass and when winter came and the bike was stored away, I felt suddenly tethered and restless, as if someone had taken my freedom. I itched for spring and riding weather to return but time was against me and it was a long, cold winter. My daddy iced over the front lawn and taught me to ice skate, we went sledding and made snow forts, but it wasn't the same, there was no sense of escape to it, no independence or breaking free.

The season did finally turn and on an almost warm, pre-spring day in March, I rolled the bike out onto the sidewalk, dusted it down and pedaled off. I rode toward my grandmother's, an easy 10 miles or so and mostly level ground, made the turn and came back again, past parks and schools and the shopping center where Nana always bought our Easter shoes. I saw ducks and little league baseball games, a cheerleading practice, the now closed skating rink, relay runners from the high school. There was not a trace of snow or ice anywhere and the wind was warm as it blew through the tree branches, just beginning to bud and flower.

Spring was just around the next corner and my bike and I were ready. Just as my daddy had said, I hadn't forgotten and I hadn't fallen, not even once.