When my daughter Emily turned five years old, we bought her a pretty pink bicycle for her birthday. The following Saturday we took her to Central Park to teach her how to ride it. My husband and I held the tiny seat while Emily precariously sat down, put her Stride-Rite sneakered feet onto the pedals and desperately tried to keep her balance. So she would not fall, we gently pushed the bike, ever so slowly, holding on to the seat as she, ever so slowly, wobbled along the pavement. Then, hearts in our throats, we let go.
And Emily fell.
Over the next two years, my husband and I took turns teaching Emily how to ride, each time repeating the same procedure, and each time watching her fall. Many Advils later (the Advils were for our aching backs, not Emily's shins), we came to the sad realization that our darling daughter might one day win the presidency, but she was never going to win the
Tour de France. She quite simply did not inherit the coveted balance gene, a flaw which my athletically inclined husband attributed to yours truly. As I was unable to even stand up on the balance beam in junior high school, I was devastated that I had passed on this inner ear inadequacy to my brilliant (and otherwise even keeled) daughter.
On Emily's seventh birthday, I made one last desperate attempt to teach her how to ride a bike. I simply could not bear the thought of my little girl going through childhood without ever knowing the wild abandon of wheels racing against the wind, the thrill of whizzing around the unhurried pace of passing pedestrians.
Holding the bicycle while she got on, Emily placed her hands on the handlebars, her feet on the pedals, and began to ride. I held on as long as I could, and then let go.
And Emily fell.
Suddenly, a bike rider in his mid-70s stopped in his tracks and offered to help.
"Looks like you're having a tough time teaching your daughter how to ride."
"I just don't think she's ever going to get the hang of it," I said with a lump in my throat, and a sprain in my lumbar.
"Anyone can learn to ride a bike, let me show you."
The man walked over to Emily, had her sit down, place her hands on the handlebars, and her feet on the pedals.
"Well, that's what I told her to do, but she can't ride."
"Oh, but I didn't tell you what you have to do," he replied.
Here it was. The magic formula. Now this man knew exactly how to teach someone to ride a bike.
"Take your hands," he said confidently. I put them up in the air. "Okay, now ever so carefully, put them in your pockets."
"But, but..." I pleaded.
The man gave Emily a gentle push. She fell. I rushed to pick her up, but he stopped me.
"Keep your hands in your pockets," he warned.
Emily got up on the bike again, and fell again. My hands were twitching and trembling, but I kept them pinioned to my pockets.
Emily got up on the bike a third time, and kept on riding.
Emily became an proficient cyclist, and now, as a teenager, is an expert horseback rider, figure skater, and all round wonderfully balanced young lady.
I am proud to say I have had a big hand in her many accomplishments.
Mostly because I've had the good sense to keep them in my pockets.
