My son has learned to ride a bike! Just when I had given up on the thought of my kids riding their bikes, he did it. In just two evenings. This weekend, after not having touched his bike in a good year, he asked my husband “Can you take off my training wheels? I think I want to ride it now.” All it took was a couple of rides down our driveway, then a couple of passes up and down the street pedaling while my husband held him. They had to stop relatively early so today after school he asked to play outside again. I had to make dinner so I told him not to try to ride his bike without someone out there with him. He’s good at playing semantics so he went ahead and rode his bike, I’m thinking he justified it because his little sister was outside so he wasn’t all alone. Anyhow, he came running in to tell me he could go a long distance now, and sure enough, he is now riding up and down our sidewalks easily. Turning is still an issue but that will iron itself out as he gets more confident. I am so excited that he is starting to ride.My bike was my favorite thing when I was a kid. The picture is me on my tenth birthday with my first bike. The person that taught me to ride was my slightly older neighbor, on a ten speed much too big for me. I had to get on it like one would get on a horse, next to a rock so I can use it like a step stool. I climbed on the rickety thing and my neighbor, Gretchen – who looked nothing like what you would picture a Gretchen to look- pushed me down the big hill. It was do or die. Since the bike was so big I simply let it fall to the side as I jumped off of it. One day I noticed my dad talking to her mom about a beat up silver bike in the bed of her truck. He had bought the bike from her mom because she thought it was useless and was going to toss in in the dump. He took it to my grandma Tina’s house and pretty much rebuilt it and spray painted it bright yellow. I loved it. The color was great, it was my size, my little sister could fit in the handlebars, and it looked almost like a real BMX bike. My dad taught me to fix the flats so I could take the tires off, get the inner tube out, patch it up and then put it back together. I still had to buy several new tubes due to all the goat heads and cactus I’d run into. The front rim was also bent after awhile from all the accidents. We would race on it, sometimes with my sister sitting up front, and never with any caution. We had our own bike gang, we played our own type of soccer game on the bikes, or would ride down to the basketball hoop. Once when a big black dog was chasing me I threw my bike at it and raced home, I went back a couple of hours later with several friends and some big rocks to retrieve it. I have quite a few scars now because of that yellow bike, but I also have so many great memories. I think the scars give me character, another chapter in the book that is written on my body.