Watch how fast I can go, watch how fast, watch how fast

It’s been a summer of new experiences for the boys. They spent a week taking care of a sweet Maine coon cat. Wally learned how to make an eager dog drop a tennis ball and how to jump from a boat. Jay learned how to swim and ride a bike and also that learning curves sometimes run into hard objects.

Tuesday afternoon while running I passed a house with a small bike for sale, $5. I finished my run and went back for it. Jay has had limited practice riding a bike- probably ten hours on a balance bike and a few more on one with training wheels. He took to this new bike quickly, though, which is the way he seems to prefer to learn things, at a slight delay, then all at once.

The road by the house we’re renting this summer runs slightly downhill to a wide cul-de-sac. It’s the perfect place to learn to ride a bike, with a downgrade to get you started, a place to turn around at the end, and it’s not so steep coming back that little legs can’t make it. Jay wobbled when he first got on the bike and I ran alongside to break any falls. He peddled down the road, turned around in the cul-de-sac, and peddled back to our house without any help from me. He did it a few more times Tuesday night, then dozens Wednesday and Thursday. I couldn’t believe it. Soon he was cutting smooth arcs across the blacktop.


Last night, Wally and I were down at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and Jay was up above us, by our driveway. He’d been making noise all evening about how fast he could go and he wanted us to watch him make his fastest run yet. He came down the hill toward us. We were kind of in the center of the cul-de-sac, which forced Jay to take a route a little more to the left than he had been. I could see the problem developing: As he approached the bottom, he wasn’t slowing down enough, and didn’t seem to realize he had less space to make the turn than usual. About two seconds before it happened, Jay’s fate was as clear as day: He started to turn, head down, intent on his peddling, and plowed directly into a mailbox. I thought for sure he’d led with his face and expected to see a lot of blood and missing teeth. Thankfully, thankfully, he somehow only bruised his arm. He cried for a while, a long while. We left his bike on the ground, completely indicative of the accident that had taken place, and I carried him back to the house for dinner.

Afterward, when he’d finished his food and been convinced that the bruise on his arm wasn’t much to worry about, I asked him if he wanted to go back outside for a few more runs. I didn’t want him to go to sleep with nothing but the memory of the crash to dwell on. He said no initially, then yes. We walked outside and he strapped on his helmet. He walked the bike down the driveway to the road, mounted the seat, then turned downhill. He went slowly at first, peddling easily, riding the break. At the bottom he made a real wide, long turn, then peddled up to me. Good boy, I thought, now you really know something about riding a bike.


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