I Can Ride My Bike

Like every little kid, I used to ride my bike constantly. My sister and I would race between manhole covers on our street or zig zag along the sidewalk path.

Every once in a while, not very often, my mom would climb on her bike. It never made sense to me why she didn't do it more because it was always an opportunity for her to show off. She would make our tires kiss, which always convinced me I was only a bump away from crashing to my death. Other times she would casually cruise along without holding on. It must have been some sort of sorcery because that was insane and pretty damn cool.

Of course I tried it. Duh. I casually dropped one hand, no big deal. I peeled off one finger. Then another. And finally I was just poking my handlebars.

Woah! I got this far and felt on top of the world. With only a hiccup of hesitation, I let go completely. I pulled my arms farther away from the handlebars.

I swear, I flew. You know, right up to the point where I plummeted to my doom.

Instead of a victory lap around the block, I sniffles and hobbled back to the house. And to make it worse, my cool new bike had a scratch. Well for that matter I was covered in scratches too.

It was that moment that I stopped trying to let go and always gripped at least one handle of my bike. 

Wow, that sounds like some cool metaphor or something but I really just mean my bike.

While I always wanted to know how to go without holding on, I kind of gave up. I don't like being hurt. Actually I think that's where many of my fears lie. More than death, I fear living in pain. And, yep, that includes skinned knees as much as anything.

So I faced this fear of falling this week. It's a childish fear, but it's steong and has been living in me for a looong time. I think it's life span actually makes it more difficult to face.

Anyway, I got on my bike daily.

I let go daily.

I made it approximately five seconds at a time. It felt like at least an hour as I passed those two houses, though. Seriously.

Gah, I'm lame.

I guess I need to keep working on it. Maybe I can get to the point of looking like one of those guys who rides their bikes all arrogant and lazy. Blocks at a time.

What I've also figured out, though, is that I care a lot less than I thought I did. It's a game more than something I'm worried about perfecting.

My kids have started playing along too. They will let go of one handlebar and hold it in the air like a bullrider. They do not laugh when they ask me to count how long they go and I start with an over-enthusiastic "LET'S GO, BOYS! LET'S GO, BOYS!" Nor do they think it's funny when I stop counting at 8 and do my best air horn impression.

*Sigh* I need to take them to a rodeo. Or at least watch Eight Seconds.