explains his fear. Or maybe not. I’ll never know. ab Also much later, I learned that six percent of adult Americans have never learned to ride a bicycle. One could see this as an elite group. ab When my parents decided I wasn’t going to ride the bike, they relegated it to the back of the garage, where it loomed behind some empty boxes like a ghost you tried not to see. I saw, of course. Despite everything, I liked the sporty way it looked leaning on the kickstand. Big red reflectors were wedged into the spokes on each side of the wheels. I envisioned them catching the light as the wheels spun like kaleidoscopes while a more confident, popular me pedaled up the street, smiling and waving to neighbors. Once, out there alone, I sat on it. The metal had gathered greasy dust and the tires were flat. Pumping the tires and trying again hardly seemed worth the trouble. Even if I could ride, I still couldn’t go beyond the driveway and back yard. Then one evening, when my mother and I had eaten supper and my father was working late, I asked if I could walk to Kelly’s to play. It was midsummer and still light out. Approaching Edmonds’ house, I saw Keithy’s parents—both of them—teaching his little sister to ride her bike. She was on a smaller version of Keithy’s Sting Ray, its bright pink streamers fluttering from the handlebars. Keithy was nowhere in sight. “Jane, can you ride?” Mrs. Edmonds asked. She squinted and smiled at the same time, shading her face with one hand. She had a no-nonsense look—pedal-pushers and no lipstick, hair short and wild—that made evading the question impossible. “Sure she can,” Mr. Edmonds said. “Honey, let’s let Jane ride your bike.” Keithy’s sister got off and before I knew it I was atop the white banana seat. Mr. Edmonds promised he would hold on to the back. “I’m right here,” he said. “I’ve got you.” I found the pedals, gripped the handlebars. Off to one side I could see Mrs. Edmonds and Keithy’s sister looking on. I heard Mr. Edmonds’ voice in my ear, sensed his grip on the back of the bike. And then we were off. I heard the clop of his foot soles on the pavement, felt the breeze in my face. Round and round my legs pumped, through the wind past a parked car, past Browns’ house. For a moment I wavered, turned the handlebars, started to fall, but he caught me. Again, his voice: “I’ve got you.” Then we were going straight. For just a moment, it seemed, I knew how birds felt, gliding aloft as the world passed by. How far did I ride on my own before I glanced around and noticed that Mr. Edmonds had let go? That he was standing in the distance behind me, arms open, smiling? That I had been glid-
A Journal of Creative Nonfiction
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