Finding Your Wheels

Of all days…my youngest of four daughters, Maybel, chose today to learn to ride a bike.  Most parents would more than likely be thrilled at the exhilarating prospect.  For me, it shook me to a core.  There was no run this morning to jump start my day.  I bumbled down to my gym and sat on a stationary bike.  No balance required…as my thick, hard-soled boot would make that near impossible.  I came home to Maybel rummaging through the garage in search of a bike helmet, announcing that we were heading to the vacant school lot to try out her wheels.

I was never quite good on a bike.  In fact, the day I “learned” how to ride, I came home with an arsenal of bruises and what was termed a slight concussion.  But it was in seventh grade that I realized that I was meant to stay on the ground…no wheels required.   My friend, Colleen, and I were asked by her parents to bike over to the store.  She let me borrow her bike, and she took her older sister’s wheels.   Thank God, as that bike seat was far too high for me to dream of reaching.  She sensed my hesitation, but as any twelve-year-old would do, she convinced me it was an easy ride, and we’d be back in no time.

Of course, I had her lead.  I followed, keeping my eyes glued to her back and trying hard not to shake as the cars passed us.  And then, the unthinkable happened.  Colleen’s front tire hit a rock, and her bike wobbled.  In complete empathy, mine wobbled even harder.  She fell off her bike and landed on the concrete.  I had time to swerve.  I had time to get off my bike and check on my fumbled friend.  I had time to react.  But, I’m not meant to be on a bike.  So, instead, I rolled over the top of her.  It was as if my bike had chosen its path, and all I could do was hang on.  Then, of course, I fell too.

I went to her.  Her mouth agape.  She was more shocked at my pathway than her fall.  She stood up, looked at her bright white shirt…only to find tire marks across her chest.  I looked down.  I sobbed.  I begged.  And I walked my bike back to her home in cyclist’s shame.  We still remained friends, but I think there was something more than tread between us after that.

But after just a few short bursts, Maybel got it.  She rode her bike around the playground in utter bliss and oozing with pride.  I watched her, and realized it might be time for me, too, to find my wheels.  My running shoes are hung up for a while.  And my thick, hard-soled boot could surely handle a pedal stroke or two.  And truth be told, my courageous, little five-year-old inspired me that we can all learn something new.  So maybe it’s time to forgive me, Colleen.  Better yet, maybe I should forgive myself.  But if you ride in front of me, be sure to wear a dark shirt.