I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I learned to ride a bike, but I was old enough to remember I waited longer than most of my friends. My best friend was already cruising with ease, flying around corners like a kid in a BMX commercial. I, on the other hand, was still clattering along behind him, my training wheels rattling on every turn.
I was a cautious kid. If my parents were even a few minutes late getting home from a date, I’d start imagining the worst — car accident, fire, some dramatic tragedy unfolding without my permission. (Maybe that’s why I became a writer: overactive imagination.) This was pre-cell phone, so they were almost always out of reach, which meant I was left alone with my thoughts — and all their uncertainty.
I hated that feeling. Not knowing. Not being in control.
Back to the bike. Those training wheels made me feel safe. They were my control — the illusion that even if I wasn’t sure of myself, something else was holding me upright.
Until they weren’t.
One day, I was riding fast down Banquet Avenue, the street where I grew up, trying to follow my best friend as he turned onto his street just past my house. I leaned the way he did, watched his movements, mimicked his confidence, but instead of gliding through, my bike caught. It tipped up onto the right training wheel, jolting me sideways. The whole frame twisted. I lost control of the handlebars and went down hard.
Scraped knee and elbow, and an ego that took most of the damage. A raw reminder that fear doesn’t always keep you safe. Sometimes, it just slows you down until you fall anyway.
I crashed right next to my house. After a few Band-Aids, we found a wrench in the shed and took the training wheels off. No ceremony. No celebration. My parents weren’t there to witness the milestone. It was pure necessity.
What strikes me now isn’t just how quickly I adapted, but how different the ride felt. I could lean. I could turn. I could keep up. I could finally go on the dirt roads west of our neighborhood — long stretches that led to the broad expanse of my imagination, like going everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I’d pedal for what felt like hours, toward the mountains that never seemed to get any closer. But I didn’t care.
I could ride.
Those roads became therapy later on, especially during the years my mom was sick. There wasn’t much a kid could do about cancer. But I could ride a bike. I could throw my leg over the frame, grip the handlebars, and move. And sometimes, moving is the only thing that helps. Running serves that same purpose for me now.
Looking back, the training wheels weren’t the enemy. They served a purpose. But I outgrew them, and I didn’t notice until they hurt me. That’s the thing about some kinds of protection: they do their job, and then they quietly start working against you.
I’ve had other training wheels in my life. Some I bolted on myself. Others were handed to me like required steps in a standard operating procedure.
There was the job I stayed at too long because it was safe. The version of masculinity I absorbed that equated emotion with weakness. The idea that being a provider meant measuring love in overtime hours and mortgage payments. The belief that some things only work if I never say, “I need help.” Or “I’m scared.” Or “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I clung to those wheels for years. Some helped me stay upright when I was wobbly. But others just kept me from turning when the road changed.
The hard part isn’t seeing the training wheels now. It’s admitting they helped at one point. That I needed them. That I was afraid. That safety mattered more to me than speed or distance.
And that was okay for a while.
But the crash always comes. Sooner or later, the thing you thought was protecting you starts keeping you from growing, from moving, from responding to real life in real time. And you’re left sprawled out on the pavement, wondering how long you’ve been dragging dead weight.
These days, I still hit bumps. I still take turns too fast sometimes. But I’m not looking for something to catch me. I trust myself more. Not because I’m invincible, but because I’ve learned how to fall without breaking everything.
And sometimes I still think about those long dirt roads. About riding through ruts and washouts. About the wind on my face. About not needing a destination to justify the ride.
Some days, life still feels like that — like I’m pedaling into something I can’t quite see. But I’m moving. I’m learning.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of the crash.
And that is enough.
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