Love & Hate Relationship Part II

Returning to my bicycling goal the next May, I considered the problem at hand: I couldn't stay upright for more than five seconds. What was the solution? I surveyed the area, and my eyes lit upon our brown Pontiac.

If I used that as a handrail/crutch, I just might stay up. Carefully I lined my bike up parallel to the car. I held onto the door handle to steady the bike and myself, and then I pushed off down the driveway toward the street. It worked, not really well, but sufficiently. I guided myself along the car and then coasted for a few feet before my feet hit the ground to save my body from a painful encounter with the cement.

After weeks of this maneuver, I finally determined that I had the skill of balance mastered. Now I moved onto propelling the bicycle and myself along the sidewalk. After several days of perseverance, I could delicately round the corner from my driveway to the sidewalk and then peddle rapidly from there to the driveway at the end of my street. Yet the greatest challenge of all still faced me: crossing the treacherous slope of sidewalk curb down to the street. Although I'd overcome balancing and riding, this single obstacle scared me the most. Still, I wanted to triumph over it too, because I longed to feel the freedom exhibited by the other kids whizzing up and down the street in front of my house.

On a sunny summer day when the birds were singing and a slight breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, I attempted the seemly impossible. Taking a deep breath, I pushed off from the level driveway and rode safely down the slope in front of my house. My next door neighbor, standing in her front yard, began cheering my accomplishment. I was thrilled!

With pride, I pumped the pedals, moving quickly up and down the road. One last circle and I decided to end my maiden voyage and float into dock. Suddenly the elation was gone. Fear returned. While the entrance onto the street hadn't been too difficult, the exit from it was extremely tricky. I'd conveniently forgotten this when I headed off on my first ride in the street. Now terrified, I approached the slope at the wrong angle, teetered, fell, and hit the black top mostly on one elbow.

I had long hair and my bike was not mangled by the crash.

My triumphant ride ended in disaster. Janet, my neighbor, ran over and picked me up. She bandaged the physical damage, but the mental trauma was left untended and unhealed. Although I stayed involved with riding for several of the following years, I never truly felt comfortable riding the bike. As a result when bike riding became uncool during my teen years, I didn't really mind.