The Training Wheels Come Off

Sam's training wheels were off.

They sat in the grass like two little silver ears, and Sam wanted to put them back on right now.

"I'm not ready," said Sam.

"You're ready," said Dad.

"I'm NOT ready," said Sam.

"You're a little ready," said Dad.

The bike looked wrong without them. It looked wobbly. It looked like a bike that wanted to fall down.

"It's going to tip," said Sam.

"It might," said Dad. "That's okay."

That was NOT okay.

Dad held the back of the seat. Sam climbed on. The pedals felt too far away. The handlebars felt too wiggly. Everything felt too everything.

"Don't let go," said Sam.

"I won't," said Dad.

"PROMISE don't let go."

"I promise I'm right here."

Sam pushed one pedal. The bike moved forward and the whole world tilted left and Dad's big hand was there, steadying, and Sam put his foot down hard on the sidewalk.

"See?" said Sam. "Not ready."

Dad squeezed his shoulder. "That was try number one. Want to know a secret?"

Sam did want to know a secret.

"Try number one is always terrible."

Try number two was longer.

Sam pushed the pedal, then pushed the other pedal, then pushed the first one again. Three whole pushes! The wind touched his face. For one second — one tiny, quick second — the bike felt like it was floating.

Then the handlebar jerked. Then the front wheel turned sideways. Then Sam and the bike went down together in a big loud clatter on the driveway.

Sam's knee had a scrape on it. A bright red scrape, the shape of a strawberry.

It stung.

Sam sat on the ground and his eyes got hot and his chin got wobbly and he cried. Not a big cry. A stinging cry. A this-isn't-fair cry.

Dad sat right down on the driveway next to him. Right on the hard ground, like it was a couch.

He didn't say "you're okay." He didn't say "get back on." He just sat there, and after a minute he said, "That's a good scrape. Want a bandage?"

Sam nodded.

Dad went inside and came back with a bandage that had rockets on it. He pressed it on slow and careful, and Sam watched the red disappear under the rockets.

They sat there a little longer. A bird landed on the mailbox. The bike lay on its side, one wheel still spinning, slow, slow, slower, stop.

"I felt it," Sam said quietly.

"Felt what?"

"The floating thing. Before I fell. I felt it."

Dad didn't say anything. He just waited.

Sam wiped his nose with his wrist. He stood up. He picked up the bike, and it was heavy, but he held it.

Try number three.

Dad's hand on the seat. One push. Two pushes. Three pushes, four pushes, and there it was again — the floating thing — five pushes, six, and the wind was on his whole face now and his legs knew what to do and—

Dad's hand wasn't on the seat anymore.

Sam could tell because the bike felt lighter.

He didn't look back. He wanted to look back, but he didn't. He just kept pushing.

The sidewalk rolled out ahead of him, long and gray and his. The trees went by. The mailbox went by. His shadow slid along beside him, a kid on a bike, moving.

"SAM!" Dad's voice was behind him now. Behind and getting farther.

Sam didn't stop.

He was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

He pedaled all the way to the big oak tree at the end of the block, and when he turned around, Dad was standing way back at the top of the driveway.

Even from far away, Sam could see he was smiling.

Sam rode back. Wobbly, a little crooked, but back. He stopped with both feet on the ground.

The rocket bandage on his knee was already peeling at the edges.

"Again?" said Dad.

"Again," said Sam.