I Believe I Can Fly

It took forever to get rid of those training wheels.

When I was five or six years old I believed, like Calvin, that the stupid bike was trying to kill me. Saying that I'm not graceful, or imbued with a natural sense of balance, is like saying that the most distant galaxy is a long way from the earth. In addition to my clumsiness, I was deterred from losing the training wheels by my highly-developed sense of self-preservation. The ground is hard, and concrete is even harder. In addition, asphalt is rough and will strip the skin off of your bones in an instant. Face it - the Earth wants to kill you and eat you.

Dad tried. Heaven knows he tried. He took the training wheels off and gave me a push. He ran beside me while holding on. He shouted encouragement. On a good day day I could make it most of the way across the yard; but I always made him put the training wheels back on because I simply couldn't get the hang of it. He and Mom encouraged me, bribed me, and did everything else they could to make me push through my fears and brave the terrors of a carnivorous earth; but it was no use.

In the end, the taunts and jeers of my friends pushed me to it. I simply couldn't let them keep calling me a baby because they had their training wheels off and I didn't; so I had Dad take the training wheels off. It was wonderful - I could ride my bike! I was free to ride up and down the street with the wind blowing through my hair. No longer a baby, I was an undisputed Big Kid and the master of all things with two wheels. I couldn't understand why I hadn't done this sooner.

A week or so later, I was riding up the street enjoying the freedom that a bicycle gives when, for no reason that I could detect, the Earth grabbed my front wheel and threw me over the handlebars to land face first on the asphalt. I broke my nose, and the Earth ate most of my face.

I told you that stupid bike was trying to kill me.