Training Wheels

My first bike was a purple “Dragster” with high handlebars, a long white seat with gold flecks, chrome wheels and a ‘sissy bar’ at the back. It was a hand-me-down from my older sister, Milissa. Nevertheless, I adored it. Except, I couldn’t ride it!

I was fine with training wheels attached, but even taking one of them off, would throw out my balance and I’d fall. I was determined to master it though, and every day after school I’d be out on the street, trying to work out how to balance so that the training wheels didn’t touch the road. As I struggled, I’d watch other kids. Older kids whizzed by me, laughing as I wobbled and toppled in their wake. But the worst, the absolute soul crushingly worst moments came when my baby sister, Harriet, would race past me, not a training wheel in sight, the merry tinkle of her bike’s bell, warning me to get out of her way. I’d stop in the middle of the street, glaring at the stupid, coloured streamers on her handlebars as they fluttered in the wind of her velocity. I’d mutter the worst swears I knew. Sometimes I’d call after her, telling her what I thought of her and her stupid hot pink Barbie bike. It never made any difference, but it soothed my wounded pride a bit.

One of our neighbors, Mr Phillips, would stand in his front yard watching me. Oh, he tried to pretend he wasn’t looking. He’d prune his roses, water the lawn or do some mowing. But I could feel his eyes following my lack of progress up and down the street.

Mr Philips was president of the local cycling club and considered something of an authority on anything bicycle related. On the wall in his lounge room, taking pride of place alongside a photograph of his long dead wife, Lindy, there was a framed first aid certificate. He was practically a doctor in our eyes and a year ago, when I fell over playing tag with my cousins, Dad took me to see him first. Mr Phillips reckoned my arm was broken; which was later confirmed by an x-ray at the hospital.

After almost two weeks of watching me struggle with that bike, Mr Philips had had enough. He put his secateurs on the fence post and came striding out onto the road. As he approached, he reached for something in his hip pocket. I stopped the bike, staring, wide-eyed, wondering if I was in strife, and what I had done wrong.

“Now listen,” he said. “You can’t ride a bike with training wheels for the rest of your life! You’re getting rid of them today.”

When Mr Philips spoke, people did listen. No-one, least of all nine-year-old me, would dare contradict him. I got off the bike and hunkered on the curb watching as he got to work removing the training wheels. I glanced up and down the street and looked over at my house. A small part of me hoped that someone might notice. Of course, no-one did. I couldn’t get that lucky. I was the invisible middle child, not just in my family. I felt invisible everywhere – except when it came to the school-yard bullies. They never failed to notice me. If I could just master this stupid bike, I might have a chance of outrunning Brett and Matthew Johnson, the terrible, terrifying twins that made it their mission to chase me home from school every afternoon. Today, even they were conspicuous by their absence. I went back to watching Mr. Phillips.

“When we start a race at the club,” he said as his spanner loosened the nuts. “A bloke holds the bike and runs behind while the rider gets his balance. That’s what I’m going to do.” He set the training wheels aside and stood the bike up. “Get on.”

With a dubious look at the training wheels lying on the road, I did as I was told.

“Now, pedal.”

As I pushed off, Mr Philips walked behind me, holding onto the sissy bar. “Keep going,” he urged.

I pedaled harder, picking up speed and listened to Mr Phillips’ feet jogging along behind me.

“That’s the way. Now, keep your feet on the pedals and go.”

Wind rushed by my ears, my hair lifted in the breeze, I pushed those pedals with all my might and suddenly, I was flying.

The sound of Mr Phillips’ feet faded away behind me as I sailed to the end of the street.

“Now turn around and come back!”

Turn around? I gingerly turned the handle bars. The bike wobbled, swerved. I put one foot to the ground.

“No! Put your foot back up. Swing it around! Now ride to me!”

Something incredible had happened. Mr Philips believed in me! I picked my foot up, regained my momentum and soared towards him. A triumphant laugh bubbled out of my throat as I spotted Brett, Matthew and Harriet watching me speed by them. I lifted one hand off the handlebars punching the air with a whoop of delight. The bike swerved madly, but I righted it without a thought.

I rocketed past Mr Phillips and hit the other end of our street within seconds, swooped in an arc and rode back to the driveway of our house. I was laughing, panting, tears from the wind streaming down my cheeks.

Mr Philips picked up my training wheels. “I’ll put these in my shed.”

I never saw those wheels again. I never forgot the day Mr Phillips told me to "keep your feet on the pedals and go.”