by Kimberly Devine

Created on: March 16, 2009

There are many reasons a child learns to ride a bike: freedom, fun, fitting in and funds, to name a few.

"Funds?" A person might ask. Why, yes!

In 1980, I was a budding commercial actress at the tender age of four. A few commercials and a walk-on on Saturday Night Live, and I had the process down. When I tired of the auditions and the rejections, my agent and my parents used to bribe me with gold fish. I had a whole tank full of them by the time the bike-riding audition came up.

It was to be my last.

Riding a bike had never been a priority of mine. Although my parents didn't know it at the time, I had sensory-integration issues. They thought I was just "sensitive". For a child with sensory-integration problems, learning to ride a bike is often painful and terrifying.

Blissful in our ignorance, we headed to my grandparents' house to practice.

My memories of the adventure are a bit misty. I think it is rather like an individual who has been in a horrible car accident. Often, the memories never come back. In any case, I'll share what I do remember.

Picture if you will... It is the summer of 1980 in a residential neighborhood on Long Island. All the women on the block had situated themselves in their folding chairs on the front lawns with their children playing around them. You could almost see the tidy tidbits of caring gossip being passed from yard to yard.

We walked down the driveway together. My grandfather wheeled the bike. My father removed the training wheels. My mother and grandmother set up their lawn chairs with my sisters on a blanket in front of them. Neighbors walked over to chat.

Out to the street we went...

"Go Kimmy! You're doing great!" My family cheered from the sidelines as my father pushed the bike. He held the handlebars and the seat, started running and told me to pedal.

But... I cannot. My arms had fused into their bent position, and my shoulders have tightened until they pressed against my ears. My knees clamped together with just the itty-bitty toes actually on the pedals of the great galloping bike.

The only part of my body that moved was my mouth. As tears streamed down, I painfully begged, "Don't let go... Please, don't let go."

"It's okay sweetie... I am just going to let go of the handlebars."

That was the moment my father felt my fear.

As he released the handlebars, I galvanized myself with a screeching cry. Realizing death was at hand without immediate action, I leapt off of the demon vehicle, belly-flopping face first in the street. My father

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