Monday, March 21

Why?

Why cycling? Why not some other obsession?

My mother "taught" me how to ride. My older brother and sister knew how. I suppose she felt it was time for me to ride.

Father never rode. The one time he had been on a bike as a child, the child who owned it caused it to crash. Possibly the pain and embarrassment at failing kept him from ever trying again. Mother simply put me on a bike and had me try to steer while she pushed and kept me from falling over.

One day she started me down a bump in the driveway a few feet high. After making it all the way across a large parking lot without putting my feet down I turned to share my pleasure with her. SHE was at the far side of the lot. I was stunned for a moment then turned the bike around at the entrance ramp of a garage I had stopped at, pushed off and pedaled back to her.

To borrow from Braveheart, "FREEDOM!"

Hours later I was whizzing around a corner of our house and almost ran over Father, just back from working in far-off New York City. He was startled and I still feel, pleased at my success. It was difficult to impress him, and having done so, the effect has made me love cycling to this day.

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