When I was 4 years old in 1976, I got a hand me down bike from my sister. She had got the bike from our older brother, and so forth. The bike was worn, and was dark purple, with a white steer. It had no help cycles on the back, so I had to learn how to use it properly. The lessons took place on the sidewalk in front of our house, which has a little slope. I wanted to learn but I was scared to fall down and hurt myself, as all children are. My sons were like this too when I taught them later in life. My father would patiently tell me what to do and how to think, and them he held the seat and pushed me slowly forward, many times over. I fell a few times and cried, feeling sorry for myself and the injustice of not getting it right away. Slowly I gained more balance and went a little faster, and then “just like that” I rode the bike and had control over it. My father laughed and cheered at my success, calling my name. I was so proud. It was a good day. My father was a good father. I miss him.
