Learning How To Pull It Together

One of the goals I had set for myself for this summer was to make the time to teach my youngest, Gabriel, how to ride his bike without training-wheels. He is six and a half years old and an almost instinctual urge would, on occasion, wake me up at night telling me “The boy has to learn this. Now!” I do not often feel this way. Having been a “late-bloomer” in so many different respects in my life I believe in the linear yet paradoxically non-linear linearity of human development. But when that voice comes into my head I know it is time. The only other time when it makes itself heard is when it warns me of a “duty” I am about to forget or neglect.
So, one Sunday afternoon, my wife and I had laid down for a comfortable nap and I had just dozed off, the voice came on. My eyes popped open. I was done sleeping. I got up and on the way to the garage to take the training wheels off of Gabriel’s bike I turned to him and said: put your shoes on, we’ll go biking at the park. He was not happy. A) He had just sat down to watch one of his favorite movies and b) he really didn’t like biking all that much, not even with training-wheels.

So, he questioned me. Why? Why now? Why not later? . . . And I told him the truth. I told him the truth in a way I often abhor. I told him that every boy and girl has to learn certain things at certain times--like learning how to brush one’s teeth, learning how to take a bath, learning how to eat a Nutella sandwich without smearing chocolate all over one’s face, learning how to get dressed and learning how to write and read. Riding a bicycle, I told him, is on that list of things that boys and girls need to learn, now, not later (like at 10 as he eagerly suggested).

He followed me into the garage, still trying to talk me out of this absurd idea. (And, truly, it seemed kind of absurd to me. Why am I following this stupid force in my head? I wondered.) It seemed even more absurd when I realized that his old helmet didn’t fit him anymore. Was I going to make him ride his bike without also making him observe important safety requirements such as wearing a helmet at all times? Yes, I was! the voice told me. I threw the bike in the back of the van and off we went to the park.

The amazing thing, once we had arrived at the park, was that Gabriel didn’t simply refuse. He got on his bike, completely wobbly, of course. I held him, told him to put his feet on the pedals and start to pedal. He did and I was still holding him. Meanwhile he was complaining in a whiny and scared voice. Stop whining, I told him (again, in a voice that was quite unfamiliar to me), I am holding on to you. He stopped whining and started again when I told him I would let go of him for a few seconds. I let go of him anyway. After a few pedal strokes he steered himself into the prairie-grasses lining the path we were on. Not the most elegant way to stop one’s bike, but it worked.

This is how we made it around the park. Gabriel’s first 1.5 miles on a tiny bike (without training wheels, punctuated by frequent sudden stops in grassy areas) went by without major falls or scrapes. I was happy for him. But I was especially happy for myself.

We repeated this course over the next few weekends. Several times my son Jacob came along echoing my annoyance at Gabriel’s initial tentativeness. Although Gabriel was increasingly able to pedal for longer stretches, he was still easily whimpering and steer in somewhat uncoordinated ways. Of course, the unavoidable happened. One time he didn’t fall on grass, but on the pavement instead. He had scraped his elbow, was bleeding and crying to the point of almost seeming hysterical. I made him get on the bike again, paying only superficial attention to the cut. But he wouldn’t stop crying while riding, thus almost preparing his next fall. I stopped him squatted down in front of him and said in a very stern voice: “Gabriel, you have to pull it together right now. This cut is not so bad. You need to concentrate on your riding. If you don’t, you’ll fall again.” He argued a little bit, but not much. After he started again a few whimpers still escaped his mouth. Every time I just said “Gabriel, remember what I just told you.” Eventually, he stopped and his riding became more confident. On the way home in the van, he was padding his elbow with a piece of tissue without complaining. Just taking care of it. At home he ran to my wife, Leslie, his mother and proudly told her of this tour around the park, almost forgetting about the fall. We had crossed into new territory.

Of course during the coming weeks, there were moments on the course around the park when his tentativeness reappeared. Curves that seemed too sharp, down-hill stretches that to him seemed as risky as a daring cliff-dive into the ocean. But I was running next to him throughout, ready to grab him, if necessary, and by the fifth weekend of us doing this he was riding in front of me and away from me.

I am glad I listened to that voice. It’s as if that voice told ME to stop whimpering and whining (to stop hiding) and to take the risk of pushing Gabriel to ride. And my whimpering hasn’t stopped, of course. I see the “curves and down-hill stretches” in front of me and they scare me. Gabriel and his brothers will “ride out of sight.” I will no longer be able to keep up with them, ready to grab them when they fall. All I can do is trust that they have learned the wherewithal to move through physical and emotional injury and still pull it together. So, whether I whimper or not will, in the long run, no longer make a difference in their lives. But stopping it, pulling myself together, will help me focus on what is ahead of me.