Teaching My Son To Ride a Bike by tex norman

It is an iconic act, this image, this memory,

of what one thinks is remembered,

this duty, this privilege of being a father.

Teaching a child to ride a bike is so

common, so shared, so symbolic an act

that it is used in television commercials as

an parental logo, as a representation of

parenting. There are millions of parenting

acts epitomized by this one, so if I fail at

this one thing, I fear I will have failed as

a dad. And I did fail. I tried, of course.

I remember running beside him, my hand

gripping the seat of his bike, my mind

ready to brace him, to add balance where

it was needed, or to catch him should he

begin to fall, and all the while I’m feeling

his fear. He knew what was expected.

He was supposed to trust me and I could

see he was trying to trust me, but trust is

earned and I was in default. I was in

paternal recession, a dad depression, my

stock had fallen for more than two

consecutive quarters. He couldn’t find his

balance while trying to balance my

presence in his life. I left him in an empty,

slopping parking lot where he used

the gravity of this earth sensing somehow

that speed equals distance divided by time,

and all the while he added balance his life.

My son learned balance by himself,

alone, all alone, all on his own.