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I was nervous. The day had come for me to cross the threshold from little kid to big kid and I was terrified. Under Carolina blue skies, I traversed the gravel parking lot where my brothers and other kids from the quarters spent lazy summer afternoons squinting for glinting chunks of fool’s gold. The rocks crunching under my feet sent a pang of worry through my small body.
Gravel is slippery. What if the tires can’t grip? What if I slide and fall off the bike? Worrying was a trait I was born with and had perfected in my six short years. I was the kid who memorised routes to unfamiliar places in case, in an emergency, I needed to make my way home without my parents or older siblings. I was the kid who walked into a room and immediately checked for alternate exits. Just in case. Now my dad was waiting for me, steadying my bike with his hand, the pink training wheels abandoned and strewn to one side.
“You ready?” he called, a small smile on his face.
I don’t fully remember what happened next. There was no traumatic event associated with learning to ride without training wheels, yet the particulars have long since evaporated from my memory. I remember snippets of that first ride, remember the sharp scent of my father’s cologne, the gold of his watch on his wrist as he gripped the handlebars…
