I remember when my purple banana boat seat bike with streamers went on its inaugural ride without training wheels. I remember my dad summoning all of his courage to take his youngest, yet most bull-headed daughter out in the backyard to accomplish this task. Somebody had to do it . . . and well, he was my dad.
The ride was bumpy. But that ride peddled me into a life-long love for biking. During the summer months of my middle school years, it wasn’t uncommon for me to ride around our neighborhood 20+ times, seeing how fast I could go. In high school, my mom and I packed breakfast the night before for early morning rides to my grandma’s house. And eventually, I rode in the Little 500, at Indiana University . . . where my biking career kind of took a serious fall.
My husband bikes to work. (There is something so darn attractive about that.) And my sons heart donning their gear, and pumping those legs to spin the wheels of their racing machines.
One thing was different last night, though.
Can you tell what is missing?
No training wheels!
At this point, he didn’t realize that his daddy wasn’t holding him up. And little brother (who is patiently waiting for his Strider bike!) so desperately wanted to be involved in this significant rite of passage.
Praise God the Hottie is in good shape! They ended up taking the biking lesson onto the streets. Mr. Smackdown was off like a rocket around our neighborhood! The Hottie got quite the workout last night!
But alas, everyone returned home . . . very happy.
And no scrapes, bumps . . . well, there are a few bruises.