Let Me Tell You a Story… A Memoir

Bike Lesson, Life Lesson

I could hardly wait for May 10 to arrive. I was turning eight and would finally be getting a regular-sized two-wheeled bicycle! Friday was my birthday, and going to school made that day go by faster. On Saturday, having already assembled the bike, Daddy was to teach me how to ride it. Sunday was set aside for a big dinner with both sets of grandparents as guests with ice cream and a homemade birthday cake designed and decorated by my mother. Saturday was most important to me. Usually a sleepyhead, I was up and dressed by 8:30 on that special morning. In the kitchen, my father was working on the sink. He said, “Well, well, well. Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. What on earth has you up so early this morning?” “Aw, Daddy,” I responded. “You know why I’m up. You’ve got to show me how to ride my new bike.” “Okay, okay,” he said, but he didn’t stop working on the sink. Realizing that Daddy’s chores had to be done before the bike lesson, I was disappointed, and I persisted. “Daddy, can’t you unstop the drain later?” “No, baby. It needs to be done now,” he said and continued to plumb away. “But Daddy—” “Listen, why don’t you just occupy yourself for a while?”

With a few deep sighs and a bit of surreptitious eye-rolling—all of which my father ignored—I decided to tend to my new bicycle.

My sapphire blue and cream-colored bicycle had shiny handlebars, a front basket, and a rear seat carrier. The kickstand was a dull pewter. The cushiony handgrips and inner-tube-filled tires were black and smelled of rubber. I rubbed the black, grainy seat that gave off its leathery smell into the air of our apartment. I put dolls and other toys into the basket and took them out. Between wiping and polishing, I clicked the light on and off watching it flicker to my command. I even spelled out bike in the Morse Code Daddy had taught us as I rang and re-rang the tinny bell.

Billy—with coppery-brown hair and scabby, little-boy knees—was doubly happy that day. He’d become heir to my outgrown red tricycle, and he now had access to a big kid’s bike to admire, touch, and stand astride. In true male fashion, he squatted down and said, “Look at how the chain fits around the sprockets when you move the bike.” He rubbed his fingers on the chain and sniffed the oil he had collected. Shifting his attention to the tires, he added, “I’m going to make sure the stem’s cap doesn’t come off.” At last, it was time for Daddy and me to go outside with the bike. He, a lean, lanky, brown-skinned man, six feet four inches tall with size thirteen feet, hoisted the bike and carried it downstairs. Daddy held the door open for me and set the bike down. I, in cuffed blue jeans and gym shoes, tucked in my T-shirt and proudly followed him to the sidewalk. My bangs blew in the breeze while my barretted braids brushed my shoulders. The neighbor kids watched eagerly. Some grinned in admiration, and others frowned in envy while I followed Daddy’s instructions and directions.

“Step through to the other pedal or swing your leg over if you like. Hold your arm like this. Sit up straight. Keep the ball of your foot at mid-pedal.” I began to ride, propelled by skinny legs and long, narrow feet. Daddy jogged along, holding onto the seat of the bike. “You’re doing just fine. Keep it up.” I could hear the smile of pride in his voice. Skimming over concrete was a smooth ride that gave off a slight humming sound. Going over gravel was harder. Cycling on grass was somewhere between concrete and gravel. As I rode over it, the ride seemed buffered, and I loved the smell of the flattened blades of grass.

Eventually, my riding began to improve. “I’m doing real good, huh, Daddy?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I repeated the question, looking over my shoulder to see why in the world my father did not answer me.

I was horrified to see him watching me from what seemed to be at least a mile away. While my incipient confidence withered, and the bike took on a life and death of its own, I heard Daddy shout, “Turn around! Don’t stop pedaling!” He had never raised his voice to me before. In a split second, I did what he said. Nevertheless, I knew I was literally losing ground and began to cry ahead of time, envisioning a head bump, black eye, split lip, broken nose, cracked teeth, and all sorts of scars, scrapes, and scabs.

At an eyelash’s width from the ground, I miraculously stopped falling. In slow motion, I saw Daddy’s right hand under the bike and felt his other hand around my left upper arm, pulling me up. His right knee was in a near genuflection as his left leg gently eased the bike upright. Calmly, reassuringly, he quietly said, “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.”

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I learned how to do more than ride a bike that day. I also learned a life lesson when my father urgently told me to turn around and not stop pedaling. Of course, I learned to ride a bike and can still do so. More than that, however, I learned to never give up, to face what is before me, and to keep on walking, running, or pedaling down my life’s path.