I remember vividly the day I learned how to ride a bike. It was a sunny summer morning, perfect for being outdoors. I had my jump rope over one arm as I bounded down the porch steps and skipped along the sidewalk to the patio. Twirling the rope around my hands to shorten it for my height, I jumped for several minutes and quickly became bored. Then I saw it, my older sister's bike, leaning up against the side of the house. I suddenly had a better idea.
I was envious of my sister for having a bike of her own. Many times I had begged for someone to teach me to ride it, but Mother always said the same thing - it's too big for you. It wasn't new or fancy, just tubular metal with faded paint, a standard girl's bicycle that fit an 11-year-old perfectly. I was five. But I didn't care if Mother thought it was too big. I was going to ride that bike and I was going to ride it today.
It didn't occur to me to ask for any help, I was determined, and failure was not an option. I scoped out the yard, visualized a circular path, and with nothing but my goal in mind I rolled the bike over to the chosen starting point. There was no way I could sit on the seat and reach the pedals, so I hiked my leg into the U of the frame and stood there for a moment, arms stretched up and hands grasping the rubberized grips that were almost above my head. I imagine how I must have looked from a distance, dwarfed by the bike and trying to hold up the weight.
I could have given up the first time I put my foot on the right pedal and fell over. But I didn't. I picked up the bike and tried again. Over and over, different pedal positions, pushing as hard as I could to give momentum to the wheels, balancing for a split second before falling again. Then I found if I leaned the handlebars against the chain link, I could stand there with both feet on the pedals and balance for just a moment if I tipped it away from the fence. I gathered my courage, tipped and pushed the bike forward at the same time, felt myself sway - but I didn't fall. I kept going, my heart in my chest, balancing on the pedals until I had to turn to miss the porch and ended up on the ground again.
Rather than feeling discouraged, I felt elated. I had mastered the balance, now all I had to do was master the turning part. It didn't seem to take many tries, and I was learning to catch myself and hold the bike up instead of actually falling. Avoiding the tree roots and lumpy spots in the lawn was the hardest part, but soon I was able to make one complete circuit of the yard, then two, then three.
I felt so proud; I had done it, all alone, with no help! It was time to show off! I called for Mother to watch me, watch me! I kept riding and waited for the reaction I thought would come. It didn't. She distractedly told me to stay in the backyard, don't ride in the alley. So what did I do when she went back into the house? I opened the gate and went outside.
But the alley was gravel, and I lost control on the turn, falling as Mother certainly expected I would. Crushed and with skinned knees, I limped back inside the gate and leaned the bike back up against the house. I had reaped the consequence of disobeying Mother, and I felt sorry for myself that she hadn't thought my feat was as spectacular as I had believed it to be. I sat on the porch for a few minutes, felt the pain in my knees subside, and then, as children will do, pushed the entire alley incident and Mother's words out of my head. I went back to the bike and spent the rest of the afternoon riding it around the backyard. No matter what Mother had said, I knew it was an achievement, I knew it was spectacular, and she wasn't going to take it away from me that easily.
Years later I spoke to Mother about that day. She didn't remember why she had reacted as she had, but she supposed it was just another indication that I was fearlessly independent and she was afraid for me. I can understand her reaction now, but it certainly colored the way I paid attention to my own children's accomplishments. It doesn't matter how small an achievement it might be, I always show them the pride in their accomplishments that I wish I had seen the day I taught myself how to ride a bike.