Wheels-Up

Naomi took a spill on her bike last week. A big one. At the busy intersection she had shooed me down the bikepath’s underpass. She wanted to size up whether to ride or walk her bike down the steep descent.

McKibbin stood audience with her at the mouth of the beast and I sailed down and then up the steep slope on the other side of the street. For a long time I waited for them on the other side, then finally doubled back to find two empty bikes and an abandoned shoe sprawled across the pavement. Naomi was perched along the side of the trail crying. That awful, gravelly sounding cry that seizes up the insides of any parent within earshot.

An icepack, some ready Kleenex, and a large bandage later she was just fine. Neither McKibbin nor I ever dreamed she’d ride down that underpass. Well past her age and experience I would have taken one look at the steep incline, probably cried with fear, and walked it for sure. But she looked and it and thought “wheels up!”.

Come Monday she trotted off to school with a tale of remarkable chutzpah and a shiner that would make Rocky Balboa look like a school-yard wimp.

Last night was Naomi's first trip on two wheels since the spill. Level ground. No steep inclines. The familiar ride home from school she's done dozens of times. I watched her hesitate then mount the bike, wobble a little, and pedal off.

It’s one thing to ride a bike or learn to when you’ve never been hurt. The wind at your cheeks, the thrill of going fast. Re-approaching the task after a tumble, though, calls for a completely different form of bravery.