Give Me Liberty, Or Give Me Back My Training Wheels

I had occasion today to think about independence.  As I'm sure millions of Americans have, being the fourth of July.

I do not have much of a view from the balcony of my second floor apartment.  I can see the parking lot and other buildings in the complex.  I do like to stand out there on occasion, however, and survey my kingdom.  I was doing just that this morning, reflecting on independence, among other things, when a handful of kids came out to play.  They ride their bikes and scooters and make a lot of noise. 

As I watched them pedaling or scooting or whatever, I went back to thinking more about independence.  And I was reminded of my first taste of independence and how much it meant to me.

My friends all learned to ride a bicycle before I did.  I had actually forgotten that fact until just now.  I was in second grade before I learned to ride.  (Maybe that should have been a sign that I was a little slow.  But, who dwells on that kind of thing when you're a kid?)  Anyway, I would see my best friend, Jeff, riding his bike up and down the alley that ran behind both of our houses.  I would go outside and hang out by the alley.  He would stop and we would play basketball or play with toys or whatever it was we used to do.  Once in a while another friend would stop by on his bicycle and he and Jeff would "go riding", as we called it.  Well actually, that is what they called it.  I called it "went riding".  Because that's what I said when Mom would ask me where Jeff had gone.

I don’t really remember what I did while they were out on their bikes.  Maybe I sulked.  Maybe I threw rocks.  Maybe I just stood there looking like a loser (this could also have been a sign of things to come for me).  I had asked my father to take the training wheels off of my bicycle long before that, so maybe I sat on my bike so if anyone saw me they would just assume I didn’t feel like going riding this time or that I was taking a break from a long morning ride around the block.  Whatever it was, I know I spent a lot of time trying to learn to stay upright on that darn bike so I could "go riding" too.  What I was starting to develop a taste for, I do believe, was the sweet flavor of independence.  For me, the most important thing in the world was my independence from those training wheels and my inability to ride without them.

I would like to note at this time that my best friend Jeff was, in fact, a year older than I was.  So it's not like he was some kind of a bicycle prodigy.  No disrespect meant to his riding skills, but it isn't as if he had been riding a bike before he learned to crawl or anything.  He had a chronological advantage over me.  Granted, he may have learned before second grade to ride his bike, but I have no proof either way and it’s my story so we’ll leave it at that.

To his credit, he never made fun of me and I would like to thank him for that.  I haven't seen or talked to him since 1979, but wherever he is, I appreciate his understanding during my "transportation challenged" years.  On the other hand...  and I hate to dwell on the past, but there is the possibility that he mercilessly made fun of me when he and the others would go riding while I sat out by the alley waiting for them to return.  If that's the case, then you know if you're guilty or not, Jeffrey.  If you are, then I'm the one who broke the ladder on your Tonka fire truck by trying to lift the front end of your mom’s Gremlin with the hook and crank assembly and I blamed it on your little brother.  If you're not guilty, then I have no idea what you're talking about.  What fire truck?  Did your mother even drive a Gremlin?

I remember the day I got finally got my independence.  I had been out in the alley alone that day for hours.  No friends around.  I would run with my bike, jump on, and go twenty or thirty feet until I would have to jump off before I went down.  I must have done it a dozen or more times, maybe fifty.  The details are a bit fuzzy.  Suddenly, on one of my launches, I remember I kept going.  I went far enough that I actually had to pedal the bike to keep it going.  I was ready to jump off, as I had every other time, but I kept pedaling and was actually riding!  And that was that.  From that point forward, my feet hardly ever touched the ground.  Morning until dusk, I was out riding my bike.  Because I could.  Jeff and I would go riding.  When someone stopped by and wanted to go, I was the first one on the bike.  I was independent, by golly.  Free at last!  That is, as long as I didn't leave our block.  No crossing streets, said mother.  Freedom is subjective when you're seven.  It still felt like the world had opened up to me.

Gaining that first bit of independence lights a fire inside of you.  The next bit for me was getting a driver’s license.  After that, graduating high school was a milestone.

I can only conclude from looking at my personal journey that I will never be able to stand up at the table, tap on my wine glass with a piece of silverware, and announce to the room “Mark this day on your calendars, everyone.  This is my declaration of independence, to be celebrated henceforth annually on this day.  I finally made it.”

If I ever do feel bold enough to make that statement, someone should check to see how many glasses of wine I emptied before I started banging on it with my butter knife because chances are, I’d be too drunk to drive home.  Or even ride a bicycle.