On June 1, 2013—just ten days before welcoming my second child—I confronted my long-standing fear of bicycles. After decades of physical and emotional setbacks, I finally learned to ride a bike. Growing up in suburban New Jersey during the ’80s, I missed the essential milestone of removing my training wheels, as I constantly tumbled instead of gliding gracefully down the street.
While my friends effortlessly rode their bikes to school, I struggled. Despite my persistence, I never managed to balance properly, leading to frustration and ultimately abandoning the bike to gather dust in my overgrown backyard. I accepted that cycling wasn’t in my future, avoiding any social situations that involved bicycles.
Getting my driver’s license in 1995 offered a temporary escape from embarrassment, particularly as biking began to fade from youth culture. I continued to walk or drive everywhere throughout college and beyond, keeping my lack of cycling skills a secret until I eventually confided in my wife. Her response was clear: it was time for me to learn.
In my late twenties, I attempted to overcome my fear but faced more falls. A friend who was an experienced cyclist tried to teach me, but after a few painful hours and a few scrapes, I went home still unable to ride. This failure lingered for years until my wife introduced me to an adult biking class, which I hesitantly agreed to attend. Surrounded by others with similar struggles, I thought this might finally be my path to success.
However, the experience brought back all my childhood insecurities. Despite the support, I felt like a child again, watching others ride while I remained grounded. After several more discussions with my wife, we decided that purchasing a bike might give me the push I needed. The shop owner made an awkward metaphor about cycling, but I left with my new bike—still filled with doubt.
Everything changed in 2009 when my son, Jake, was born. Suddenly, learning to ride was no longer just my personal challenge; it was about being there for my child. I wanted to teach him how to ride when the time came, so I mustered the courage to try that adult class once more, just before my daughter’s arrival.
Motivated by the thought of my children, I finally managed to ride without falling. At 35, I felt the exhilaration of wobbling down the street as instructors cheered. More than two years later, I’m not a biking expert, and I still feel nervous around heavy traffic. Yet, I can ride and even took the training wheels off Jake’s bike this summer, a moment filled with emotion. Although he hasn’t learned to ride solo yet, I am committed to supporting him through any future tumbles.
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In summary, my journey to learning how to ride a bike at 35 illustrates that it’s never too late to confront fears or embrace new challenges. With the right motivation and support, we can achieve what once seemed impossible.