My son has learned how to ride a bike.
It’s awesome to watch. The kid’s a complete menace: fast, super-fast, and always right on the verge of losing control. (I have put my faith in the good folks at the Canadian Standards Association, who certified his helmet. If his brains spill, it’s your ass, Inspector #3554!)
There’s only one problem.
He doesn’t know that he knows how to ride a bike.
Last summer, and most of this one, we watched him ride. His training wheels only touched the ground every once in a while. (His grandmother ran over the bike with her car an hour after she bought it for him. It’s never been quite right since. And the training wheels have always been a little cock-eyed). We were pretty sure he could ride without training wheels. But he was not about to give them up.
“Other 5 year old’s are giving up the training wheels, you know. You guys are pretty big kids now.”
“That’s OK. I think I’ll keep mine until I’m a teenager.”
But the other night, for no reason we could discern, he asked for them to come off. His dad obliged.
He decided he didn’t want them off after all.
So they went back on the bike. But now, they’re 5 inches off the ground.
I think maybe he knows. And I think he knows we know.
And I don’t think he’s in a hurry to be a big kid.
(Image borrowed from here. No, it’s not my son. If he ever slows down enough to be captured on camera, I’ll show you.)