Updated: March 24, 2021
Originally Published: September 19, 2015
On June 1, 2013—just ten days before my second child was born—I confronted my long-standing fear of bicycles. It was time to learn how to ride one after spending three decades battling with my balance and self-esteem.
Growing up in suburban New Jersey during the 1980s, I missed the classic childhood experience of shedding training wheels and wobbling down the street while my parents cheered me on from afar. Instead, I spent that time falling repeatedly. My friends from the neighborhood picked up biking as easily as breathing, zipping back and forth to school without a care, while I struggled. Frustration overcame me, and I eventually abandoned my bike to rust in the overgrown backyard.
I accepted that biking might never be in my future. Whenever I encountered a group of friends on their bikes, I would shy away, knowing I couldn’t join them. The embarrassment faded somewhat when I got my driver’s license in 1995; kids weren’t biking much anymore, and I could easily avoid the stigma of my lack of cycling skills. This pattern continued through college, where I opted for walking and driving instead.
After graduation, I finally confessed my biking secret to my wife, Sarah. While she was understanding, she insisted it was time to change that. In my late twenties, I attempted to conquer my biking fears, but it ended in disaster.
Once again, I fell a lot. My efforts to teach myself on Sarah’s bike were futile, so I enlisted a friend, an enthusiastic cyclist, for help. I thought he could guide me through the process, but I ended up stumbling and crashing on the quiet streets of Philadelphia. After a few hours of blood and bruises, I returned home, still unable to master a skill that even young children excel at.
Years passed without any attempts to ride again, until Sarah sent me details about an adult biking class offered by a local cycling organization. I thought this could be my chance. The participants were just like me, and I felt a flicker of hope. However, after completing the class, I found myself in the same position—still struggling to ride.
Once again, I felt like that 6-year-old kid in New Jersey, watching his friends ride without him, and I sank into a funk. After some intense discussions, Sarah encouraged me to buy a bike and practice at my own pace. Reluctantly, I purchased a bike from a local shop, sharing my story with the owner, who made an odd metaphor about relationships before I handed over my hard-earned money.
I did practice, but progress was slow. Everything changed in 2009 with the arrival of my son, Max. Suddenly, my desire to learn was no longer just about me. I wanted to be the parent who could teach his child how to ride.
With my daughter’s due date approaching, I finally gathered the courage to try that adult biking class again. This time, fueled by visions of my children biking alongside me, I wobbled down the street as instructors cheered from a distance. At 35, I finally found my balance and managed to ride without falling.
Today, more than two years later, I’m not a biking expert, but I can ride. I still feel a bit anxious when cars pass by or when I’m caught behind a group of tourists on Segways. This summer, I took the training wheels off Max’s bike, marking an emotional milestone. While he hasn’t quite mastered riding yet, I’m ready to support him through his own falls and failures.
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In summary, my journey to learn biking has been filled with falls, frustrations, and ultimately triumph. What started as a personal challenge transformed into a motivation to be a supportive parent for my children.