by Amira Colter

Created on: March 14, 2009

Growing up in a neighborhood where there were open grounds as well an interconnection of paved streets made me want to learn to ride a bike. Walking back then wasn't as cool as shooting through the breeze on two wheels and seeing another kid do just that made me determined to learn to ride at whatever cost. I was 10. I didn't have a bicycle of my own. But I was determined to learn so I made my move.

My dad had a bike and after school I'd take it to the part of the neighborhood where in all the wisdom a ten-year old can muster, I knew very few cars and people pass by. The street where I did my daily practice was my favorite street in the entire subdivision. It was lined on one side with nice quiet houses that never seemed to have any people in it and yards that open into the street. On the other side was an empty lot were grass grew. Not too far from the lot was the neighborhood basketball court where the community would hold yearly basketball tournaments, parlor games and Christmas parties for everybody. This was my perfect practice ground.

I was a stubborn little kid and no thoughts of bodily harm could deter me from getting to my goal. Then it was learning to ride the bicycle. My ten-year old self figured that just because the street looked deserted doesn't mean no cars would pass by so I kept to one side of the street. The street was paved but there was a gap on the edge. The gap was where the pavement ended and the grass grew. I was supposed to stay on the side of the street and the gap was my marker. I needed to steer clear of the gap, ride on the bicycle by keeping my balance and keep from falling. Stay away from the gap or risk getting the front wheel stuck on it and fall. Steer too far and I would on the side of oncoming traffic (there wasn't any). Balance and control. Because I would start close to the edge of the pavement and didn't know how to balance myself in the beginning, I would steer towards the gap, lose the little control I had to start with and fall. Many times. It didn't matter. Each fall only brought me closer to learning to ride so I stood up and tried again.

When my usually deserted street started to fill with people at around four in the afternoon, I'd take my dad's bike and head home happy despite of the bruises and scrapes. (Not to mention the occasional scolding for wrecking the poor bike) I kept coming back and didn't stop until I finally got to get home riding on the bicycle. One of the proudest times of my life.

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