I had difficulty teaching my son to ride a bike without training wheels.

He did well in the tricycle, Big Wheels, and training wheels phases, but when it came time to take off those side bars, I couldn’t conceptualize an instructional process that I, a disabled person, could utilize.  We tried the walking-backwards-around-the-block method, but we both got hot, sweaty and cranky.  He didn’t want the neighbors to see him earnestly striving, a grimace on his face, fear bubbling from his six- or seven-year old heart.

We needed a new venue.  We tried a bike trail in a nearby park, but the foot traffic and the zippy, accomplished cyclists discouraged both of us. After a while, I hit upon a plan.  I loaded child, bike and helmet into my car and drove to the top of a parking garage on a Sunday afternoon when the associated business was closed.

I parked  and pulled him and his gear from the vehicle.  He scowled and trudged to the far wall, peering down.  I watched him, trying to refrain from snatching him back from a certain three-story plunge.  “Can anyone see me up here,” he asked, finally.  I assured him that no one could.  I had no idea if they could or not but figured my small lie would never be revealed.

I coaxed him to the far end and onto the seat,  He solemnly adjusted his helmet strap and then gripped the handles.  We tried a few pedals, me doing that walking backward thing, holding onto the handle bars.  He commanded me not to let go, he wasn’t ready.  I kept at it. So did he.

After thirty minutes, I finally stopped and told him to get off.  He did so and we stood facing one another, the child stubbornly determined he couldn’t do it and the mother just as adamant that he could.  He so wanted to succeed; and I so wanted him to have this first taste of independence.  I knew my job:  Grow him to be a man, then let him fly.  Pedalling without training wheels seemed to me to be the first tangible step towards the ultimate accomplishment of my duties as  mother.

A few minutes passed with the two of us glaring at each other.  He folded his little arms and I lodged my hands on my hips.  The wind blew and nearby, on Troost Avenue, cars honked, and screeched their brakes, and pulled over for passing emergency vehicles.  Up on the rooftop, my son and I paid no attention to the traffic.

Finally, I made him an offer.  “I tell you what.  I’m old, and crippled, and getting a little fat.  I’ll make you a deal.  I’ll ride first, and if I can do it, you can do it.  So if I try, you’ll try, okay?”

He considered this.  I could see the calculations flitting across his face.  He assessed my body, my awkward legs, my clunky shoes.  He decided that I could not possibly succeed so the risk of his having to try again were minimal.  He nodded.  I took a hold of the little bike and swung one leg — the least incapable one — over its small frame and settled my Doc Martens on the miniature pedals, my knees just under the short handle bars.

I started the bike in motion.  The greatest danger to my success seemed to be the potential that I might capsize in laughter, at the thought of what I must resemble:  A clown, I supposed, one who had just been disgorged from a tiny car and now crossed the ring on a miniscule bike.  But I rode; I rode about fifty feet, and then slid  off the bike.

“Your turn,” I said.  He looked betrayed.

But one thing I had taught him:  A deal is a deal; and he had made a deal.  We aren’t welchers.  He got on the bike, I turned to face him, and we both held onto the handle bars, his hand on the grips and mine between.  I started walking, backwards, from the outer edge of the blacktop westerly, towards the building.  “Pedal, Patrick; pedal. . . ” I repeated  over, and over, and over and after a dozen paces, I let go and stepped aside.

And he rode. Standing at his starting point, I held my breath; and then, when I saw him riding, without training wheels, a smile dawned across my face and I let myself exhale while my son rode and the breeze raised itself around us.  He made it all the way across the rooftop, turned, and started back towards me, grinning and pedalling.  I stood and watched my little boy, and I swear, I’m sure that I saw him flying.