On June 1, 2013—just ten days before my second child was set to arrive—I faced my long-time nemesis: the bicycle. After three decades of avoiding two wheels and nursing bruised knees and a battered ego, I finally learned how to ride a bike.
Growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey during the ’80s, I missed out on that classic childhood milestone: the moment when training wheels come off and you wobble away while your parents cheer from a distance. Instead, I fell. A lot.
While my neighborhood friends zipped to school with ease, I struggled to find my balance. No matter how many times I tried, it just didn’t click. Frustrated, I eventually abandoned my dreams of cycling and left my bike to collect dust in the overgrown weeds of my backyard.
I accepted that biking wasn’t in my future. The sight of a cluster of bicycles at a friend’s house would send me scurrying away, fearing I’d be left behind yet again. Getting my driver’s license in 1995 provided a temporary escape from the embarrassment, as biking waned in popularity among my peers. I was able to mask my lack of balance, opting to walk or drive instead.
That trend continued through college, until I finally confessed my secret to my wife. While she was understanding, she firmly insisted it was time for me to learn. In my late 20s, I tried to confront my past humiliation but failed miserably once again.
Once more, I stumbled and fell. After a disastrous attempt to teach myself on my wife’s bike, I enlisted the help of a friend who was an avid cyclist. Surely, a seasoned rider could guide me through this challenge. After a few grueling hours of practice on the empty streets of Philadelphia, I went home feeling defeated yet again, despite thanking him with a six-pack of beer.
Years passed without a thought of trying again until my wife sent me information about an adult biking class offered by a local bike organization. I thought this might be my chance. Surrounded by others who shared my struggle, I hoped to finally learn how to ride. Yet, after the class, I was still left with the feeling of being that awkward kid, struggling to keep up.
After a few more heated discussions with my wife, she suggested buying my own bike and practicing independently might help me. With limited options, I purchased a bike from a local shop and sheepishly explained my predicament to the owner, who made a rather uncomfortable metaphor. I left with my new bike, feeling a mix of embarrassment and hope.
However, it was the birth of my son, Alex, in 2009 that provided the true motivation I needed. Suddenly, learning to ride wasn’t just about me; I wanted to be the one to teach him. With my daughter’s due date approaching, I gathered the courage to sign up for that adult biking class once again.
Motivation can be a powerful thing. This time, I envisioned my children cheering me on as I wobbled down the street, and finally, at 35 years old, I didn’t fall.
Fast forward to today, and while I’m no cycling expert—I still get nervous when cars drive too close or when I’m stuck behind a group of tourists on Segways—I can ride a bike. This summer, I even took the training wheels off my son’s bike, and while Alex hasn’t quite mastered it yet, I know that when he falls, I’ll be there to help him get back up.
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Summary:
At 35, I finally learned to ride a bike after years of struggle and self-doubt. With the motivation of becoming a role model for my children, I faced my fears and took the plunge. Though I’m still not an expert, I can now ride and look forward to teaching my son the same skill.
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