Even before it became another relic of the “things I used to do”, my mountain bike was in pretty rough shape, fifteen years of hard riding and more crashes than I’d care to admit taking its toll. After another eight years or so collecting dust and spiderwebs in a corner of the garage investing in a new one was something that I’d been considering.
The time table for that upgrade may have been accelerated greatly by the events of today. Parenting wins are easy to write about, the biggest challenge finding a tone that doesn’t make the reader feel as if you are bragging to them. The fails are harder, a reluctance to acknowledge that from time to time things are going to go much differently than we had planned, reminders that the difference between a funny story and a tragic one is often more influenced by luck than by anything that we may have done.
One of the things that we succeeded in crossing off my summer “to-do” list was getting my daughter comfortable on her bicycle. The training wheels are long gone and a gravel road with minimal traffic behind our house has proven to be the perfect training ground. Little by little she has been increasing her distances traveled, ten, twenty, sometimes thirty yards at a time.
With the basics conquered and a desire to encourage her further, we packed up and headed to a nearby river trail that we often walk. We arrived, she took a few skips to gather momentum, and off she went.
It was the last time I saw her for over an hour.
The first half a mile of the path is inclined, her bike is already too small for her to fully extend her legs and she knew I was on foot. It never occurred to me to tell her to periodically stop and wait for me, that there was any chance that once mobile she would pedal for two miles before needing a break, stopping to celebrate how well she was doing, or simply look back over her shoulder.
I have no idea how far she went or what the other joggers and bicyclists may have thought as they passed a six-year-old on a tiny Snow White bicycle by herself in the middle of the woods. It’s possible they just assumed she belonged to the sweaty fat guy with the wide eyes and red face puffing by them as fast as he could. I didn’t have the spare breath to ask them, too afraid that I would start vomiting if I stopped to inquire.
When finally I reached her, visions of finding a bleeding, crumpled mess as I rounded each corner, she was standing outside of a dog park, an intersecting road impeding her progress before my heart and lungs gave out completely.
When I finally got up off the grass she was given some strongly worded instructions for the ride back, an out of control, white-knuckled, breakneck race that required all of her attention simply to hold on. She never did look back.
Her helmet, knee and elbow pads, and some more adequate means of transportation for myself will be brought along on our next adventure.
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Previously published on thirstydaddy.com.
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Photo credit: istockphoto.com
