Bicycle Race

The human mind is a well-oiled machine, with a multitude of functions. The relevant information is moved to our consciousness as needed, while our memories unrelated to the current story are moved away. They may as well no longer exist, until a moment comes along that brings the event back into our mind's eye, almost as if it never left. Sometimes what we see is mundane, boring, like someone else's home movie, and we save it and put it away. Other times, we watch our defining moments like high-definition, technicolor blockbusters.

They say that you never forget how to ride a bike, but do we always remember the first time we tried and succeeded? I hadn't thought of it more that a few times over the last two decades, but the senses of pride and accomplishment help to round the details of the day.

My training wheels had been removed from my bicycle, and my father walked alongside me as I pedaled, stopped myself with my feet, and fell- over and over and over. I was especially jaded to see a young neighbor who couldn't have been much older than me, riding with confidence and bravery. I was frustrated and humiliated. I cried and stomped my feet like little girls at that age tend to do, and I was unreasonably certain that I would never learn to ride my bike.

While my brother and I were playing on and around our long driveway, our parents would park one of the cars at the end to discourage us from venturing into the road. I had mastered the art of pedaling down the sloped concrete, but hadn't quite figured out how breaking came into it all. I typically rode down the hill, gaining speed before crashing into the family station wagon. I did that over and over, growing more and more frustrated at my inability to keep moving, or to stop efficiently.

On one summer morning, early enough that dew was still on the leaves and grass, I set my bicycle up in its familiar starting line, at the top of the driveway pointed straight down, towards the car waiting at the end. I pedaled with a huge amount of effort, pumping my legs and standing up to gain momentum. As I approached the car, I veered around it, continuing to pedal as I rode into the yard. I hadn't fallen, I hadn't stopped, I hadn't crashed. I had actually ridden my bicycle, in the correct sense of the word. I don't know what the difference was. Perhaps it was patience, or focus, or determination, and at this point I am not really sure of the answer to that question, but I had figured it out. That was really the first time in my life where I could see the fruits of my labor present themselves. It was one of the first memories I had that is associated with pride.

I am going to try to make the conscious choice to be brave in all my endeavors, no matter how afraid of the crash I am. It worked at the tender age of 5, so I have the faith to make it happen today.