If I close my eyes, I can remember ever detail about the day I finally learned how to ride a bike. I can almost feel the wind ripple through my hair and the warmth of the sun on my legs. I can almost hear my father’s exuberant yells of admiration as he watched me fly off from a distance. I remember adrenaline surging, hot, through my veins, and feeling like nothing in the world could touch me; nothing could catch me. I smiled, knowing that my smile would never display the amount of joy I felt.
At that moment, I felt complete; whole. When I was around eight, my father decided that it was time to remove my training wheels, and teach me how to ride a bike. Honestly, bikes defy the law of gravity. How can riding a bike be easy when you’re supposed to stay balanced on two, thin, wheels? The answer is: It’s not. Learning how to ride a bike definitely took a lot of time, patience, and bandaids.
I cried and whined the whole way through. But no matter how hard I cried, my father would take me outside everyday and push me to learn. When I would continuously fall and beg not to get back up, my father would pick me up and make me. He’d say things like, “I know it is hard baby, but you’ll thank me when it’s all over,” and I did. What my father didn’t know was that he not only taught me how to ride a bike. My father taught me patience, discipline, and he showed me that hard work pays off.