Lessons learned along the way. 4-2-2021 |
Trust My eighth birthday present was far better than my seventh or, so I thought. Seven was a non-birthday substitute. We needed a new septic tank. Was fine while I thought it was a castle. Then they buried it. Eight was a pink and purple two-wheeled bike. Long sparkly streamers cascaded out of the handles, a flowered basket was on the front, and I, I was terrified of it. I already had a horse, could canter her bareback, jump streams and fences without a worry. Could trust my horse-- she was alive and she understood me without a doubt. The bike was steel and spokes. It wobbled. It was a thing. It didn't breathe. It had a mind of its own. I didn't trust it. Nine, ten, eleven. I'd try, every so often. Graveled driveway, dirt roads--much easier on a horse. My friends didn't know I couldn't ride a bike. Queen of excuses, I always had one reason or another. Until I didn't. Girlfriend suggested I try her little brother's old bike. It was a little kids bike, beat up with a dented fender and more rust than paint. Three friends staring at me. No excuse was going to work. I was doomed to be the butt of so much teasing. Didn't want to be teased, made fun of. Didn't matter that they were all afraid of horses. They could ride a bike. It was a little bike--my feet could touch the ground balance on the seat. Paved road, smooth, even. I held my breath, closed my eyes and pedaled. It worked. Turned, stopped when I wanted it to. No big deal. That night, at home, I tried my bike. I promptly rode-- it into our jeep. Bashed the wheel, broke my nose and my glasses. But I rode it. And somewhere along the way, I figured something out. It wasn't the bike I didn't trust enough. It was me. |