Sitting on my bed,
The noise of the clock- tick tock,
The pen remains still.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Try, Try Again: A Classic Tale of Bike Riding
I was seven. Perhaps I was the only one in the second grade who couldn’t ride a bike without training wheels. Yup, it was a difficult time in my puny little life. Heck, my younger brother who was five at the time was riding without training wheels.
Finally, one spring, I decided to dedicate an entire weekend to learning how to ditch the ‘wheels. My grandmother lived down the street from us on the same development in Albuquerque at the time. The bike was bright pink and green and had rubber wheels (perfect for riding over thorny prickers the tumble weeds left behind). I practiced riding back and forth from her house to ours with the training wheels on, trying my hardest not to let them touch the ground. When I thought I had mastered that it was time t have my dad take me out for some real training.
So, like any parent trying to teach their kid how to ride a bike, my dad would start with one hand on the handle bars and one hand on the seat, pushing me down the street. He’d count “1, 2…3” before he let go. Time after time I would never get too far. It wasn’t long before my frustration got the best of me (an attitude I would later revert to when my dad was teaching me how to drive).
A cooling period was in order. My Dad and I went inside where my brothers and grandma were eagerly waiting to here how things were going. Fed up, I exaclaimed, “I’m going to be in college before I learn to ride a bike!” Being the tiny drama queen I was, my family just grinned.
A few hours later I snuck outside to do some solo practicing and low and behold- I did it. I finally made my first full run without training wheels and without a helping hand. At that moment all the anger, frustration, and embarrassment I had felt before became obsolete. I had finally caught up to my brothers and the rest of my class.
When I ran inside and told my dad he looked at me, smiled, and exclaimed, “I’m gonna be in college before I ride a bike!” Although seemingly scornful, it was my dad’s sarcastic remark that made me see just how silly it was to ever doubt myself.
Finally, one spring, I decided to dedicate an entire weekend to learning how to ditch the ‘wheels. My grandmother lived down the street from us on the same development in Albuquerque at the time. The bike was bright pink and green and had rubber wheels (perfect for riding over thorny prickers the tumble weeds left behind). I practiced riding back and forth from her house to ours with the training wheels on, trying my hardest not to let them touch the ground. When I thought I had mastered that it was time t have my dad take me out for some real training.
So, like any parent trying to teach their kid how to ride a bike, my dad would start with one hand on the handle bars and one hand on the seat, pushing me down the street. He’d count “1, 2…3” before he let go. Time after time I would never get too far. It wasn’t long before my frustration got the best of me (an attitude I would later revert to when my dad was teaching me how to drive).
A cooling period was in order. My Dad and I went inside where my brothers and grandma were eagerly waiting to here how things were going. Fed up, I exaclaimed, “I’m going to be in college before I learn to ride a bike!” Being the tiny drama queen I was, my family just grinned.
A few hours later I snuck outside to do some solo practicing and low and behold- I did it. I finally made my first full run without training wheels and without a helping hand. At that moment all the anger, frustration, and embarrassment I had felt before became obsolete. I had finally caught up to my brothers and the rest of my class.
When I ran inside and told my dad he looked at me, smiled, and exclaimed, “I’m gonna be in college before I ride a bike!” Although seemingly scornful, it was my dad’s sarcastic remark that made me see just how silly it was to ever doubt myself.
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