It’s not a big deal really, but it made me feel like time was slipping
away and there were some fatherly duties I was geting a little behind
on. Sure, he could hit a pitched baseball, catch a football on the run,
dribble and shoot a basketball and hit the snot out of a golf ball. But
he had never learned to ride a bike.
That had to change.
His birthday is in January, and that is when he found his brand new
Hoffman Scarab waiting for him in the garage. Like any kid, he was
totally excited — at least until he tried to ride it. Here he was, my
super-athletic son, unable to balance on a two-wheeler. He’d go a few
feet, lean to the side and plant a foot on the ground. "Dad, it’s not
working," he said. Despite my encouragment, he’d had enough and was
ready to do something else for a while.
Bummer that.
Next time out, we worked on coasting, so he could balance with no worry
of riding or braking or anything else that might make him fall. I put
the seat all the way down, took off the pedals and pushed him around in
the driveway. As exciting as that was, it held his interest for maybe
two days before he decided he’d rather zip around on his tricycle
again. After that, we pulled the bike out once or twice a month to give
it another try, him squealing and laughing, me running behind, holding
the seat to keep him upright, and panting like a puppy who’s been out
chasing rabbits all morning.
The lack of success had me wondering when he might be ready to give it
a serious shot. Maybe when he turned six? Or seven? But he had his own
ideas. A few weeks ago, he came in the house and said, "Dad, come watch
me ride my bike." Knowing I was in for another good run, I put on my
shoes and followed him out. As I picked up the bike he said, "No. Watch
me do it myself."
So I did.
I watched him put on his helmet and straddle the bike. I watched him
move the pedals back until his right foot was poised for a downstroke.
I watched him push down with his foot, sit on the seat and get both
feet on the pedals. And I watched that little bugger ride!
I must have been there ten or fifteen minutes, watching him ride around
the driveway in circles, going to the left and to the right,
well-balanced and in control. As he rode, I saw the joy on his face and
listened as he talked excitedly about just suddenly knowing how to do
it himself.
Watching him brought back vague memories of my own dad teaching me
how to ride, running behind until I was steady enough he could let go.
I know how he must have felt back then, his little boy growing up,
happy and carefree, while dad stayed behind, smiling and panting,
watching the birth of the next generation of cyclists.
My son turned five this year, and he learned how to ride a bike.
Guess I’m not such a bad dad after all.
The bike that started it all:
Way to go, Nate!