When I was younger, the neighborhood kids and I would walk home from school, drop the backpacks, grab something to eat, and then hop on our wheels. The six of us, and a million mosquitos would play for hours in the warm Australian afternoons until the streetlight at the top of the cul-de-sac flicked on – the universal symbol that it was time to go home.
Being one of the youngest, and far from one of the coolest neighborhood kids, I was the last one to learn how to ride a bike. I got my first bike in October of 1992, and it was a hand-me-down from my neighbor, Kate. Kate was (and still is) five years older than me, which made her automatically the coolest person in the world. The pre-loved bike was pink, had a fully functional straw basket on the front handlebars, a white seat, and a bell that didn’t work.
My Dad put the white training wheels on the back and after a few weeks of wobbling around the backyard, they were ready to come off. Because she was five years older and infinitely cooler, Kate offered to teach me how to ride.
I was a very cautious child – probably because I was always hurting myself or getting hurt – which of course didn’t make me any cooler, but profoundly effected my bike riding lessons. I wanted to avoid any momentum, so Kate taught me how to ride on a flat-section of our neighbors’ lawn, and held the back of my seat as I’d nervously shake and wobble through the grass.
Here is an illustrated map of the street that I got from Google (<3) and edited to illustrate my story more accurately.
The hours came and went. And it turned into days of Kate walking along next to me, one hand on the handlebar, and one hand on the back of my seat. After this went on for a while, eventually Kate let go of the handle bar. I could steer myself, thank you very much. A while later, Kate had to quicken her walking pace to a slight jog – still holding the back of the seat. After what seemed like an eternity of “Can I let go now?” “NO! ONE MORE TIME!” Kate was getting frustrated. It’s honestly a huge credit to her that she didn’t intentionally push me over and give up. I would have.
Kate needed me to feel confident that I could do it, so one day she asked the other neighborhood kids (all of whom were, without a doubt, much cooler than six year old “skinny-minnie”) to watch and see how I had progressed. Everyone came out to watch. My big brother, Donna, Brett, Danny, Mandy…I was a painfully shy and sensitive child, so this was a very big deal. I wouldn’t say that I felt “cool” at that point in time, but I was definitely feeling confident that very soon, I’d be able to ride my bike with the rest of them.
With her hand on the back of my seat, we started slowly as usual, then the adrenaline took over and I pushed the bike hard…well, as hard as my skinny legs could push, and I took off. For the first time, Kate had to actually run to keep her hand on the seat – I felt the cool wind blowing wisps of hair around my face as I zoomed down the street, and I could hear the dull roar of everyone cheering beneath the pounding of my heart, swelled with pride. Kate’s smiling face in my peripheral vision, her laughter in my ear, and our dust training behind.
When I stopped, my heart was racing in a delicious mix of adrenaline and excitement as everyone was clapping and cheering for me. “You did it, Minnie! You did it!” Finally. I had been accepted as one of the bike-riding cool-kids. I felt so encouraged and empowered, I told Kate, “Ok, I’m ready to try without you holding me now.”
“But Minnie…I wasn’t holding on that time.”
I’m a little unsure of what happened next. But from what I can piece together: the pink bike hit the floor with a thud. The smile disappeared as the blood drained from my face. I had been betrayed. I went from being so happy I was on the brink of tears, to feeling vulnerable, exposed and hoodwinked. Those skinny legs that had pumped those pedals so fiercely now carried me up the street, tears streaming down my face. How could this have happened? I wasn’t ready. How could she do that to me?
I hate her.
I burst into the house, still in hysterics, ran into my room and wished so hard that it had a lock. Hiding under the covers, with my heart pounding angrily in my chest, I could overhear Mum and Kate downstairs.
“What happened?!”
”She rode her bike and I wasn’t holding her.”
”…I don’t understand, why is she crying?”
Weeks went by and I disappeared into my books again. I resumed my position as Ernie’s little sister who reads and cries all day.
I’m not sure what happened, but I know eventually I got over the traumatic events of that warm day in October of ‘92, and began riding my bike with the cool kids.
I recently got back in touch with Kate, and thanked her for teaching me the ways of the road. I don’t think she really realizes firstly, how traumatic it was when I was six, and secondly, how ultimately thankful I am for it today. Anyone who knew me as a kid knows I would NEVER have done it willingly and I needed to be pushed.
It taught six year old skinny Minnie that you’ve got to get yourself out of your comfort zone if you want to do something special. Even if you’re scared, vulnerable and uncertain of what’s going to happen – you can’t get too comfortable with the hand on the back of your seat or you’ll never change. Twenty two year old not-quite-as-skinny Mindy forgot that, and the hand of the back of my seat had been there for a long time.
My sincerest thanks to Kate for teaching me in ‘92.
(And thanks to Kara for reminding me today.)
Minnie.
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