Losing the training wheels

My five-year-old and I biked to the library today. My wife was a little worried that she wouldn't be up for the distance (2.8 miles, round-trip), but having watched her over the past few weeks, I knew she could do it with the proper motivation!

The library had story time accompanied by some therapy dogs for the kiddies to play with afterwards. Also, her favorite dinner of chicken and noodles helped her find the energy to pedal home. She did such a good job - I was so proud of her! She didn't complain at all - we stopped and every cross street and took a sip of water, we walked our bikes across the street, and even raced to certain landmarks! I'm thinking those training wheels are going to be coming off before the summer...

A little more after the break...

I remember when I was 9 years old and my family moved to a new neighborhood.  I didn't know anyone and didn't know my way around.  I spent the summer kicking around on my bike finding my way from place to place.  At some point a truck must have been carrying a turned over paint can, because there was a long trail of white paint that weaved it's way through the streets of our subdivision before coming to a splattering halt right around the corner from our house. I followed that paint trail anytime I got lost.  I remember the thrill of riding my bike to just about anywhere in the neighborhood (without crossing any major streets, of course) knowing that I could always count on my trail of breadcrumbs (or paint) to lead me back home.

Eventually I made a few friends and we used to like to ride down a perilous gravel road along the canal which we called "Rocky Road."  We'd attempt to make little ramps and imagine that we "got like three feet of air" (Napoleon Dynamite style!).  Empty lot football, bullies who steal chrome "caps" (that little screw on piece to cover the valve on your tires), telling scary stories about the mysterious house ("There's a bank robber who's hiding out in the abandoned house down the street!"), and lying about how far we'd taken our bikes last weekend (usually "someplace across the Mississippi River") were always pencilled in to the daily agenda. There was always a sense of danger to our adventures.  The only rule was that you had to be home before dark.

Eventually, "Rocky Road" was paved over to create one more thoroughfare that ran parallel to the interstate in an attempt to ease congestion.  My paint "breadcrumbs" faded over time and the mystery house just turned out to be a guy who didn't have time to cut the grass.  Even memories are corrupted over time.  One thing that the years cannot tarnish, however, is the intoxicating spirit of adventure that is ever present in our hearts.  Age, maturity, responsibility - they do there part to tame the soul, to make it civilized, a necessity in any functioning society.  But there's no reason we can't remain young at heart; to, on occassion, let loose the inner child who is smiling at the other end of that rope swing; who is blinking back at you through the winds of change as he clings for dear life to his Huffy handlebars.  It's ok to play.

Me when I was a baby