Learning to Ride

They say that you never forget how to ride a bike. I guess that is true, as I have no evidence to the contrary. It doesn’t happen often these days, but I’ve been on a bicycle in the past year and do not recall having to think too hard about how to make it go. I just pedaled.

I first learned to ride a bike at five or six years old in the driveway of my grandparents’ house. The driveway wasn’t paved, but it was solid enough for the lesson. My pawpaw taught my cousin Deena and me at the same time. I think the competitive dynamic helped tremendously. He would hold onto the back of the seat and run alongside us while we gathered speed and then pick us up and dust us off when we inevitably crashed. I don’t think that training wheels were a thing when I was learning to ride a bicycle (and don’t even ask about helmets.)

Seems like a perfect metaphor for raising children: there with a gentle helping hand the child isn’t even aware of, and doesn’t know when it's been removed, while watching and being there when necessary. Learning to ride a bicycle requires trust in the instructor. Probably a better job for a grandparent.

I must have figured it out pretty quickly because a bicycle quickly became my primary form of transportation. My bike carried me miles and miles away from home on a regular basis. It represented freedom. That satisfied me for a few years until I got my first motorcycle.

That happy occasion occurred when I was twelve or thirteen. My dad bought me a used Honda XR-75. That was a dream, and I could go even farther with the help of that little four-stroke engine. I was thrilled until my friends started getting more powerful motorcycles. They bought Yamaha YZ-80s and Suzuki RM-80s. These were two-stroke bikes that could really fly.

I tried to make my Honda go faster by disassembling the engine one day, thinking that I could decarbonize the piston head for more power. Turns out there was no carbon on the piston head, and I couldn’t figure out how to put it back together. My dad spent hours reassembling the engine while muttering to himself.

Mom probably wished he hadn’t done that, because it wasn’t very many months later that I crashed doing my best Evel Knievel impersonation by attempting a large jump off a six-foot high ramp. The last thing I remember was flying through the air. I woke up in the hospital the next day. When I was discharged, I went home and looked in the garage to see if my motorcycle was damaged. It was gone. Mom had sold it the day before. Back to a bicycle.

“It’s just like riding a bike” is a great saying that applies to so many wonderful things in life.