Sunday was slow and tedious. Any plans made fell by the wayside as my wife, daughter and I shuffled around the house listlessly. My daughter and I eventually pushed ourselves outside and decided to go to the park. My wife, pregnant with our second child decided to stay home and rest.
The first truly Spring-like day, Sunday was warm, bright and sunny with rivulets of water wearing away the remaining dirty snow and ice lining street gutters. Several of my daughter's neighborhood friends were outside riding their bikes and soon were invited to the park.
The year before, my first attempt at teaching my daughter to ride her bike had gone awry.
Overly eager, I had let her go too soon though she was not quite ready, and she'd fallen. Nothing I said could sooth her ego or get her back on the bike.
My daughter decided to ride her scooter, but could not keep up as her friends peddled ahead. Abandoning her scooter, she clung to my side and held my hand. She was quiet as she walked, but still defiant; running ahead to stop her friends while I returned the scooter she had dejectedly decided she no longer wanted to bring.
We reached the park and played, sloshing around the sloppy ice rink and watching a torrent of ice melt run it's course into a sewer drain beside the rink. On our way back, I asked my daughter, who had been eying her friends resignedly, about learning to ride.
"Would you like to try riding your bike again?" I started, hoping to draw her out.
"No." she replied; the word edged with finality, but ending with regret.
"Why not, honey?" I was treading on tender territory.
"I dunno."
"Does it scare you?" I asked quietly. It was a question meant for just her and I. The last thing I wanted was to shred her already tattered confidence regarding bicycles by exposing her fears publicly. Granted, her friends were half way around the park, from us, but tell that to a seven-year old.
"...yes." It came out as a whisper.
"I know last time was really scary. We should try again" I said, "and this time we won't do anything until you tell me you're ready".
"She's going too far ahead" my daughter said, changing the topic. She pointed ahead to the other girls growing distance. I called to her friends to wait for us and they paused. My daughter and I continued walking hand in hand and our conversation rotated to other topics.
Halfway between the park and home, my daughter startled me.
"When we get home, I want to try again" she stated unequivocally watching her two friends biking up ahead.
"OK." I replied, unsure how to respond "That's awesome".
"And I want to practice each day, after school." she continued.
"...OK" I said, encouraged.
As we neared our house, it became obvious I had my own issues to resolve. The closer we came, the more I feared putting her on the bicycle again. I felt so guilty and responsible for failing her last time. She had trusted in me and I'd failed her. Part of me feared failing again, crushing her trust in me to make things right. I'd watched the neighborhood children zipping around and had assumed it was the father's who had taught them.
The other part of me knew I wanted to make things right.
Reaching home, we parted ways with her friends and went inside to shed our winter gear in favor of tennis. When my wife heard of our plans, she decided to join us. I pulled my daughter's bike from the garage and removed the training wheels. My daughter's excitement became palpable and overtook any evident fear.
Our neighborhood is a constant cluster of activity. My daughter's friends were riding around the cul-de-sac at the end of the block as their father worked on his motorcycle in the driveway. Another neighbor played basketball with his young boys. Cars are a frequent concern. My daughter and I brought out her bike and rolled it towards the cul de sac. My wife had worried that her friends on their bicycles might distract my daughter. I brought my daughter's bike to a spot and my daughter climbed on.
"How're we doing?" I asked her.
"Good" she replied, a bit nervous.
She struggled keeping the bike upright.
"Try to find your balance" I encouraged. "Let me know when you're ready"
"I will" she said pausing for a moment, "OK, I"m ready".
Holding onto the back of her seat, I began pushing her along.
"Pedal fast" I said breathlessly. I'm not in very good shape and feared that I might run out of energy and stumble. She began pedaling faster. We continued and I held on to keep her balance, afraid to let go lest she crash right out of the starting gate. We splashed through a large puddle and turned into the cul de sac.
"OK...stop" I wheezed, bringing her to a slow halt. We turned around and started again. I could feel the burn in my legs and lungs. We reached the exit for the cul de sac and met up with my wife, who looked at me oddly.
"Maybe you shouldn't do this in the cul de sac" she offered. "It's hard to get momentum when you have to turn all the time. Just go straight down the street." This seemed really obvious, but I hadn't thought of it, so I nodded and brought my daughter to a starting spot before the puddle and aimed her bike down the street towards our house.
"Honey, watch down the street as you peddle. "My wife told my daughter "don't watch yourself peddle." I began wondering why I was doing this and not my wife. She seemed to have the training down, but then I remembered the baby.
My daughter and I began again and I found myself struggling not only to keep up, but to let go. We made several more passes, ending up in front of my neighbor working on his motorcycle. My wife had joined him to watch us. I stretched my back and noticed as I paused to catch my breath that my neighbor was making a scissor-cutting motion with his fingers; as if to tell me cut her loose.
"Ready?" I asked my daughter, frowning.
"Yea." she replied looking at me for cues.
"Here we go" I smiled, and we started another run down the street. We built up speed
"Pedal fast" I called, " I'm going to let go. Watch your balance."
I let go and it felt like my heart skipped. She wobbled and wove back and forth unsteadily.
And then she rode on her own.
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