Prompt #2: What past memory do you cherish the most and why? If you could trade that memory for something amazing to happen in the future, would you do it? Why or why not?
Story:
I remember the day I learned to ride a bike. It all happened on that one day, not because I was a fast learner, but because I was determined beyond all reason.
It started out with my father, a man of limited patience, helping to guide me up and down the driveway, having first moved the family car and his beloved Ford pickup out onto the street in front of our house. I sat tentatively on the banana seat of my bike. I called it a mustang for some reason, though I don’t remember the brand now. The training wheels had been screwed off earlier and were sitting in the workshop, ready to be fastened to the future bike of my baby sister. My dad and I were equally confident I would no longer need them.
My dad guided me up and down the driveway a couple of times, holding onto the bike with an increasingly looser grip until he finally let go. I moved forward under my own momentum, wobbly but still upright. Then I toppled over. I wasn’t hurt because I was barely moving, a contributing factor to the toppling. I walked the bike to the top of the driveway and we tried again. My dad released a little earlier this time, probably trying to show his confidence in me. I rewarded this show of confidence by crashing even faster than before.
He muttered something under his breath and we made a third attempt, then a fourth and a few more after that. It was like watching a film of the Titanic striking the iceberg. The result was always the same: disaster.
I walked the bike up to the top of the driveway, not in the least bit discouraged by the setbacks, but dad was done. He expressed his dismay through the use of colorful metaphors, careful to not actually blame me for being an uncoordinated putz.
I felt bad. I also felt clumsy, a bit stupid and a little bruised. The bruising was part ego and part left knee. I’d landed on it at least three times going down.
I got on the bike and took a breath. I knew if I crashed now it would be worse somehow. A secret shame. Plus landing on the left knee a fourth time would hurt like hell. I pushed with my left foot and began coasting down the gentle slope of the driveway. I wobbled, I nearly yanked the handlebars too hard to the left, then too hard to the right, but somehow I managed to keep the bike moving forward.
And then it happened. The wobble vanished. The handlebars became steady in my hands. I was riding and not crashing. I felt giddy. I wanted to whoop in triumph but that might bring me crashing down. Instead I rode down the street to the cul-de-sac, then back to the driveway, reveling in my secret victory.
I knew how to ride a bike. And just like the old saying goes, I didn’t forget. I never had another crash again. I was on a high for the rest of the week.
I would never trade the sweet memory of that day, the gleeful sensation of overcoming what seemed like an impossible task. Well, actually, I suppose I would trade it for world peace. I mean, I could always just walk and world peace is probably more important than riding a bike, even one with a cool banana seat. But it would have to be genuine world peace and not some surprise twist like “all humanity is wiped out, therefore peace” or “humans revert back to protoplasm, incapable of shooting rifles or tossing fragmentation grenades.”
Man, I loved that bike.
