Back in the Saddle (or... Seat)
When I was a small child, between the time of pre-school and kindergarten, that magical age of four years old when life is free and full of joy, I loved riding my tricycle above all else. In our small (well, moderately sized for Long Island, but small in actuality) backyard, a strip of concrete ran from one end to the other, the rest dominated by lawn. This strip was my raceway, spending minutes upon hours by myself riding back and forth across it. To my left, open lawn, to my right, the staircase leading back to the house and then a solid wall.
Eventually, I was upgraded to a small, black bicycle with training wheels. I say small, but it was twice as big as my tricycle. The training wheels were attached to the back wheel with screws, and were much smaller. This too, I took to like a fish to water. First in the backyard then in our front yard, I raced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of our house, never daring to stray from that safety. I was faster than the cars passing me by, but there was yet another level. I had seen Full House, and because of this I knew that training wheels eventually came off. Since the people on regular bicycles were much faster than me, I assumed removing training wheels also came with an increase in speed. I was in it completely for the speed. The feeling of wind rushing past my ears or through my hair.
This created a problem for me. Clearly, I could not remove my own training wheels. Don't get me wrong, I tried to pull them off by hand. Attached to the bicycle by metal strips and screws, however, I had little success. The training wheels would not come off by pulling. I didn't know how to properly take them off, and even if I did, I would surely get caught somehow. No, removing my own training wheels was not an option. So I still used my own bicycle, training wheels be damned. In the back of my mind, however, there was a growing discontent. I wanted to go faster, but I knew the adults would not think me ready to remove my training wheels, so I took matters into my own hands.
One fateful morning, I set my plan into motion. My sister was either at dance practice or watching television, whoever lived downstairs at the time (for we've had three different family members live there) were preoccupied with their own thing surely, and my mother was either in her room, or watching television too. Careful not to make too much noise on our creaky floor, I crept to the backyard. Of course, I had to get past a very loud, heavy sliding door and so whoever was home knew I was in the backyard anyway. This was in the summer, and so my mother had her bicycle out on clear display. It leaned against the corner where the shed met the fence, twice my height and three times as long. A mountain of steel before me that I decided to conquer. I leaned it against the fence and climbed aboard, ready to go.
I kicked off the fence to start going, but when I tried to put my feet down, they met nothing but air. A quick glance down confirmed the worst, they didn't even reach the pedals. The second or two of momentum I had gotten from pushing off the fence lasted an hour as I realized falling was inevitable. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping beyond hope that it would all just go away, and instead I crashed into the concrete, beneath the adult-sized bicycle. Wails for mommy were had, booboos kissed, and there was no permanent physical damage from this incident, but bicycles had changed.
Before where I saw an opportunity for adventure, now I saw danger and pain. The speed which had excited me before now terrified me. If falling while going so slow was so painful, what would falling fast be like?
I desperately wanted my tricycle back, but it was gone, and so the use of even my training wheeled bicycle fell by the wayside, no longer the source of excitement and joy it once was.
Any suggestions to remove my training wheels were met with fierce denial, the thought of repeating the past incident turned the prospect dark. Eventually, kindergarten started, and there was less time to ride the bicycle at all. Later still, I outgrew the small bicycle with training wheels I had, and refused at any cost to progress to a regular two wheeler, and thus ended the journey of my trying to learn how to ride a bike. That is, until I got to high school.
