That spring, my daughter was five and a half. We took the training wheels off her bike. She tried three times on the neighborhood sidewalk. Each time I held the back seat, but she swerved and fell after just a few meters.
On her fourth try, I steadied her on the bike and said I would push from behind. She pedaled forward, and I ran after her, breathless as my sneakers hit the pavement.
When we reached the big oak tree, I let go.
She had no idea. She kept riding, wobbly but upright. After about five or six meters, she glanced back and saw I was no longer there. Panic crossed her face. She twisted the handlebars, and tumbled onto the grass with the bike.
She did not cry right away. Her face turned bright red as she held her breath, then she burst into loud sobs.
By the time I ran over, she was already untangling her pants from the pedals. I knelt down to check her injuries. A small scrape on her knee oozed a tiny drop of blood. Her cries drew glances from a neighbor walking their dog. I pulled her pants down gently and suggested we head home to clean the wound. She shook her head. She wanted to keep riding.
She picked the bike up, pushed it back up the slight slope and climbed on alone. She pedaled twice and fell again. This time, she did not cry. She got right back on.
Later that evening, she rode a full twenty meters in a straight line without falling. I stood back and watched, not rushing over. She stopped at the bend and called out to me. “Look, Mom!”
“I see you,” I replied.
Her knee stung while she bathed. The water irritated the raw scrape. I put on some Neosporin and a cute Bluey band-aid. She stared at it for a moment. “I want to ride again tomorrow,” she said.
“Alright,” I told her. I turned off the light and closed the bedroom door.
Down the hallway, I heard her roll over in the dark and hum a soft tune before falling quiet. I paused outside her door for a few seconds, then walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Outside on the driveway, her pink bike lay on its side, handlebars tilted crookedly. The neighbor’s porch light cast a faint glow across the frame.
I left it there. I set my glass in the sink and went back upstairs.
The next morning, I found the bike propped upright against the garage door, handlebars straight. She stood beside it in her pajamas, holding the empty band-aid wrapper. “Which bin does this go in?” she asked.
“The blue one,” I said. She ran to throw it away.
Then she wheeled the bike onto the driveway and looked back at me. I nodded. She climbed on and started pedaling. This time, she stayed balanced all the way.
