The shift was sudden and dramatic. Simone couldn’t ride her bike. And then she could.
One second, she was coasting unsteadily, wobbling around and putting her feet down if she got going too fast. The next, she was tooling around the neighborhood. Something just...changed...and she could ride her bike.
Of course, this change was after months—no, years—of unsuccessful attempts to teach Simone how to get around on her bike. To my shame, she grew out of her first bicycle before learning to ride it. Our first days, with training wheels and without, were fraught with bouts of frustration and fear that led to mutual meltdowns. A lesson wouldn’t last more than 30 minutes or so, because Simone would be so shaky and frustrated, and I would be so sweaty and annoyed, that it would be all we could do to lug the heavy little bicycle back to the air conditioned apartment and make peace over cold drinks and a cuddle on the couch. She wanted to make sure I wasn’t angry with her for her failure, I wanted to make sure she understood that I loved her no matter what. I’d reassure her that I wasn’t angry with her, just frustrated with the situation. I’d hug her close.
And we’d make up any excuse to NOT go out for another bike lesson.
But early this summer, I picked her up from day camp to find out she’d need a bike the next day because they’d been learning cycling safety and would be putting their lessons to practical use. I asked Simone if she would even be able to ride, and she promised she’d had some lessons at her mom’s house and could handle it. Back home, we took one look at the old kiddie bike and knew it was way too small for her to use. So we drove to three different bike shops in the city that evening, finally finding the right match.
Did I expect to spend $300+ on the bike and helmet? No. But my cycling expert friends, via Twitter and Facebook, promised me I was doing the right thing. I made a deal with Simone, though.
“If I spend this kind of money on a bicycle for you, you have to commit to learning this summer. No complaining, no saying you don’t feel like a bike lesson. We practice and practice until you can ride.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
The bike riding session at day camp the next day was rained out. So I told Simone we weren’t wasting all the trouble from the day before, and we took the bike out onto the paths in the park by our house. Simone had been a bit less than truthful when she told me she could ride, and, within 20 minutes, we were back in the house. I reached out to my Twitter peeps again, and was assured that the only way was to lower the seat, remove the pedals, and let Simone learn the skills of balance and steering first.
So that’s what I did.
(excerpt from last month’s Dating Dad:
Just today, Simone and I were out at the park—I’m teaching her to ride her bike. The process got a lot less painful once I took the pedals off and started letting her coast along, getting used to the way the bicycle responds to her movements. The deal is, she coasts as far as she can, and then I walk her bike back to the top of the hill. We haven’t had a mutual meltdown in some time, now. In fact, Simone’s confidence has grown with the length of her coasting sessions, and she’s almost ready to try it with pedals.)
One late August evening after school and an early dinner, and after Simone had coasted down the hill and I had walked her bike back up several times, I told her I needed a change of scenery. In our explorations, we happened upon a deserted parking lot behind the train station—it was blocked off, so cars couldn’t get in, and the only obstacles were the occasional waist-high concrete pylons and a broken bottle in one far corner. Simone pushed off with her feet, coasting down the lot, making gentle turns and loops, and even putting her feet up on the cranks of the bicycle. She was very nearly riding. It was one of those halcyon summer evenings; warm and gentle, quiet, sweet. Autumn would be breaking soon, but there was no hint that it was on the way that night.
We stayed out there until the sun was so low in the sky that the shadows of the surrounding buildings stretched the length and width of the parking lot. On the way home, I told Simone she was ready for pedals. She disagreed.
But, after school the next day, we went straight home, ate quickly, and then I put the pedals on Simone’s bike, telling her that she didn’t have to use them if she didn’t want to. They were only there for her to rest her feet on when she coasted. I left the seat low, and painstakingly instructed her on how to walk her bike without barking her calves on the pedals. Taking a bit of a risk, I broke out my own bike and helmet to bring along.
We weren’t to the parking lot, yet—I encouraged Simone to hop on her bike and coast down the path and stop at the street. She pushed herself off, coasted a bit...
...and started pedaling. Just like that. I hopped on my own bike to catch up with her as she stopped on the corner, and said, “Um... I think you might have been pedaling just now.”
She smiled.
We got to the parking lot, and that was it—no tentative zigzags, no near-disasters—just lots of whooping and shouting and laughing. We played in the parking lot for a couple hours, chasing each other, looping around the pylons, drifting through the parking spaces. It was one of those iconic parenting moments; after all of the tears and perspiration and hard work, we could finally ride our bikes together. I, The Dad, had taught Simone to ride her bike.
To celebrate, we rode to the pizza place across the way and ate cheesecake and cannoli. And we pedaled all the way home.
“You can ride your bike!” I said to Simone.
“I can ride my bike.” Simone whispered, the disbelief and elation evident not in the tone of her voice but in the way she held her head and in the widening of her eyes.
That leap, where we seemed to be making so little progress, and then she could do it, reminded me of the day, years ago, when she could suddenly swim. I’d take her to the community center almost every day, and she’d paddle around the outdoor kids’ pool, keeping her head above water and never straying too far from the side (or me), fear stopping her from stretching out. And one day, she wanted to pick up one of those torpedo-shaped diving toys someone had left at the bottom. She tried a few ways—keeping her face out of the water and reaching for bottom; taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, and dipping under the water—but nothing worked.
All it took was for me to say, “Simone, you can open your eyes underwater.” And, suddenly, she was diving for toys, swimming across the pool, and diving again. I bought her goggles the next day, and she became a fish. Just like that.
So I’m wondering if her new-found confidence in her ability to learn something difficult will carry over to snowboarding this year. I can’t help wondering what she’ll need to make the cognitive leap that will change her from the scared girl who falls every time she gets some momentum to the little punk who challenges me to keep up. Will it be one more full-day lesson? Or saying just the right thing?
Of course, I got a much-needed kick in the ass in the process. I was reminded that persistent, gentle encouragement allows Simone to progress at her own speed; that pushing doesn’t work. Letting her know I believe in her, and will love and support her no matter what, is far more powerful than any sort of chivvying or pressure.
I haven’t even mentioned my constant, internal doubt whether she even should learn to ride a bike or go snowboarding. I mean, she’s going to fall, get hurt, scrape her knees, maybe sprain or break something someday. The abrasions on her shins, the fear in her eyes when she bobbles and recovers, and the way she cried when she crashed hard the other day wrench my heart. Does she really need to learn hazardous activities? Am I putting her in harm’s way? Pain from bike riding and snowboarding is inevitable. What am I thinking? Does the fun of those activities outweigh the possibility of injury? It does for me, but I’m a grownup (most of the time). I haven’t found an answer to these questions.
But watching Simone pedal her bike like crazy, navigating narrow spaces and taking tight turns, gave me confidence in her, too. I’ve had my doubts about Simone ever feeling good on a snowboard, but watching her transformation on the bicycle was a reminder that small successes always win over her nearly paralyzing perfectionism.
And with those thoughts, I took Simone to a big pre-season sale and bought her a snowboard, boots, and a helmet.
“If you’re buying all of this stuff for me, then I have to commit to learning this year, right?” she asked, as we crammed hundreds of dollars’ worth of equipment in the car (because I’m re-committing myself to the sport as well).
“What do you think about that?” I asked.
“I know I can do it,” she replied.
My girl.
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