On Two Wheels

His first solo ride lasted 4 seconds. Feet planted on pedals, he rolled along, jerking his handlebars left, then right, then left again, his balance continually in the balance, wobbling the entire way--wobbling but, critically, not falling, not until the very end when the reality of what he was doing finally pierced his concentration and he careened into a raised sidewalk 25 yards from where he had started.

Natalia and I looked at each other like Andres had just sprouted wings and flown from there to here. And given his prior attempts at trying to ride a bike, that may have startled us less.

"Did you see that?!" he yelled. His eyes were gleaming under his helmet, and he flashed his toothiest smile, the one he reserves for those moments of pure, unguarded joy.

Natalia called back. "You did it!" She was smiling too, ear to ear, happiness and surprise and maternal pride all showing. This was her success, too. She had been the one to steady him on the bike and give him the push that sent him off on his maiden journey.

She was also the one who pushed him to ditch the training wheels in the first place. (I was content to leave them on for a bit longer, though I could never put my finger on a good reason why.) Andres had seen some of his friends zipping around on two-wheelers while he was still confined to bikes with four. He would occasionally mention this with a hint of embarrassment, like he knew his friends were beating him at a game that he didn't know how to play. Andres has always had a competitive streak. But like me, he doesn't use that fire as motivation to try something new, and often sits in the disappointment of not being born with the ability to do everything well.

He had first tried to ride without training wheels two weeks ago. Our initial sessions didn't go very far; he was nervous about falling, and his bike kept leaning too far to the left for him to find the balance. I held his handlebars and his seat as he pedaled. But with me refusing to let go, he had traded his training wheels for a training parent, and was no closer to being an independent rider despite multiple trips up and down our short driveway. "Remember, you need to get the balance!" I told him. "I know! I can't!" he replied. It reminded me of my (many) failed attempts to learn how to ice skate.

Natalia, though, somehow got him to glide. She followed behind him, right hand barely under his seat, left hand cautiously next to his body, pushing him forward and allowing him to wobble a bit before she helped him find his balance again. The journeys were brief, only about 40 feet or so, but they were punctuated by small stretches where Andres was rolling solo. She was enthusiastic about the job he had done. "Nice work bud!" she said. "You were on your own for a bit!"

It is fitting, then, that she was the one to launch him when the lessons clicked and he figured out how to ride. It was hard to get him off the bike once that first trip ended without incident. In an empty parking lot on Willow Street, he counted the number of times he could circle a lamppost…one time, then two, and after a few more tries he was up to four trips around without having to hop off his bike. Stopping was still difficult--sometimes he tried to hop off while his bike was still moving, and other times he slammed on the brakes and set one foot down like he was an experienced dirt-bike racer--but in one day, it seemed, he had mastered the basics.

And so we have crossed another childhood milestone. First crawling, then walking, now biking. They all require such extraordinary leaps of coordination. And while they seem to occur so effortlessly, this can't really be the case, can it? Certainly there is effort involved. There is nothing easy about staying on a bike when you are convinced you will topple over. There is nothing simple about looking at failure straight on--and then failing. Yet how easy all of this seems when you see your son riding away, the wind at his back, rolling, rolling, rolling, free.