Life Lessons—For Mom and Son—of Learning to Ride a Bike

Up until now, we’ve always lived in houses on busy streets. Our last house in New Jersey was on a county road: We didn’t even have a sidewalk and, despite being a well-known trap for traffic stops, people still drove way over the speed limit.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the best spot to teach your kid how to ride a bike. And so, year after year, summer after summer, we kept putting it off. Last summer, when Tobey was seven, was the first time we actually made somewhat of a concerted effort to teach him.

One Sunday morning, we packed his hand-me-down bicycle into the minivan and schlepped it over to Grove Park in South Orange, which we heard was a safe place for falls; and then later over to South Mountain Reservation, which we heard was better because of a gentle incline. Neither proved a successful spot for our guy to figure out how to ride. Despite our encouragement and his positive self-talk, he couldn’t quite find the balance, or the confidence, to do it on his own.

We felt more than a bit guilty when our son turned eight and he still couldn’t ride a bike without training wheels. Guilty that we hadn’t tried hard enough; worried that he was missing out on some quintessential childhood experience. My husband and I had both learned to ride our bikes young, and both of us had fond memories of exploring our neighborhoods with friends. Most of the nostalgia-colored memories of my youth, in fact, take place atop a pink Huffy bike.

For generations, parents have taught their children how to ride a bicycle. Were we not trying hard enough? Were we trying too hard? Was there a certain trick we were forgetting? Should we hire a “professional?” (Yes, there are people who get paid to teach your child how to ride a bike.)

I kept hearing a round of voices in my head: The seasoned moms who always reassured their younger friends who were overly concerned about weaning off the bottle or potty training (“Kids never go off to Kindergarten in diapers.”) Was it the same for bike riding? Was there only so much prodding and instructing I could do?

When we moved into our new house in Israel, finally on a quiet street, we unpacked the bike and placed it against the wall of the house where it stayed for two months. Yesterday, on a whim, I asked Tobey if he wanted to try again to ride. The sun was starting to set, but I knew we had at least a half an hour of daylight left.

He hesitated, but nodded. We rolled the bike out in front of the house and he got on, with me alongside. We tried once. Twice. Three times. To no avail. He couldn’t find his balance.

Until he did.

I did nothing different that fourth and final try. In fact, he was probably the most resigned at that moment. And truth be told, so was I. But in a magical moment, one that comes as rarely as learning to ride one’s bike, he got it.

As I let go and ran alongside to show him I was no longer holding on, the combination of disbelief and joy was overwhelming — both for him and for me. And part of me knew even in that moment, that the lessons of learning to ride a bike would take hold deeper for him as an eight-year-old than it would have when he was younger.

He is capable.

He is strong.

He is independent.

He is free to choose.

Lessons he was only now ready to learn.

Lessons I learned along with him.