Letting Go: The little red bike

At one time or another, we can recall letting go of something we know well and love, to move on into a realm of uncertainty. For me, one of those times was during my childhood when I graduated from a tricycle, (one that was missing its front wheel—it only had the back two) to the little red bicycle. Dad felt that I was ready and had gone to that place where he had carefully stored the training wheels for the little red bike after my brother Donnie outgrew them. He carefully attached them and adjusted them so that they were slightly higher than the big wheel in the rear. There were set so that all three rear tires wouldn’t touch the sidewalk at the same time.

At first I rode the bike leaning on one side or the other depending on one of those training wheel to keep me from the reality of the driveway. Then I learned to shift my weight to the other side. In a few days I developed a rhythm wobbling from one side to the other as I rode that little red bike clickety clack down the sidewalk of Sangamon Street. Dad observed the progress that I was making; I was peddling faster, and my wobbling back and forth between the two training wheels was getting noticeably less. There were times now when I glided effortlessly along without the help of either wheel—like one of the big boys; right down the middle.

I don’t remember how long I rode with the training wheels on the little red bicycle, but one day Dad decided it was time that they came off. "Come on, I’ll take you to the park and you can practice riding without those training wheels," he said. Dad removed the wheels and he and I began walking my bike to the park. We hiked along without speaking down the prairie path, past the old Koikin house, the abandoned car, into the park; the past the three trees to the walkway. It was a somber moment. Oak Dale Park was an immense territory to a little guy like myself. It had a wide paved walkway (wide enough for even a car) that wound its way round. That "road" went ever onward past the three trees, past the drinking fountain, past the field house, the sandbox, the playground the big rock; it wound around the baseball diamonds and circled the football field. It ended where it had started, the three trees.

Dad put me on the little red bicycle. It was my moment of truth. Never before had the little read bike seemed so BIG. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for this, but I trusted Dad….

With one hand on the back of the seat of the little red bike, Dad began running with me. I felt secure with him holding on. I knew Dad loved me, that he would always keep me safe and protected—that he probably wanted to hold onto that seat and never let go.

But he did.

Because he loved me.

He knew that I needed t be able to ride by myself, without his help—the wheels, or his strong steady had. I don’t know what changed, but all of a sudden I was riding a machine that had a mind of its own. The handlebars swerved crazily from one side to the other as I desperately searched for a focal point of balance. I almost had that point when I saw it; dead ahead—the fountain. The fountains in Chicago at that time were designed to run continuously. Water never stopped from them. The instant I saw the fountain I had the frightful realization of what was happening—the fountain was pulling me toward it. It was a bicycle magnet. I tried to swerve away, but the fountains pull was strong. It had me in it’s grips. I tried again, and again the fountain pulled me back. It got closer. I saw the water. Like a leaf on the tide I was being swept toward that fountain. It got closer, and CLOSER, and CLOSER—crash! I slammed the little red bike right into that drinking fountain.

Dad came running up and lifted me up, my eyes nearly six feet off of the ground. I looked down at the little red bike through tearful eyes. From way up there it looked tiny. "Let’s try again buddy," he said. NO. I wasn’t ready, but Dad picked up the bike and straightened the handlebars by holding e front tire between his knees, and giving the bars a good twist. He put be back on the seat. Dad knew. Again he ran with me, and let me go—because he loved me. This time I did much better, perhaps because the bicycle magnet was behind me now.

I began to let my body take care of the business of balance. I thought that I knew what to do. I began almost to enjoy this new experience; the motion, and sound of wind whooshing through my spokes. There went the field house; I passed it by. I felt so proud. I wondered how Dad was feeling. I looked back to see if I could catch that look of pride in his eye. He was quite a ways back now. He was signaling me, waving his hands and yelling something. I couldn’t make out what it was---then crash!

Reality jumped out and smacked me in the face as again I smashed the little red bicycle into a litter basket. I was laying next to the bike when Dad ran up. "What was it Dad? What were you saying?" I weakly asked.

"Watch the road, look where you are going," he said. This time I blew it. I couldn’t blame it on that bicycle magnet called the fountain. It was me. "Let’s try again," he said.

Dad knew.

Once again Dad ran with me, then let me go. There is a saying:

If you love something, let it go.

If it comes back to you it’s yours.

If it doesn’t, it never was.

This time I let my body take care of the business of balance, and I kept my eyes on the road. Boy did I go! Past the sandbox, the playground, the big rock, the baseball diamonds. I quickly glanced over my shoulder, then my eyes were back on the road. Way-way-way across the field I saw Dad watching me. I was certain that he was beaming with pride. I rode around the football field and started heading toward the three trees. Back toward Dad. Then I was there!

I came back, because I was his.

I did it! I rod by myself! With no help—thank you very much! We both knew that there would be a period of refinement of the new skill that I had acquired, but I had the general concept. I was a rider.

We headed back home, his hand on my shoulder, his smile etched into that special album of the heart.

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I said good-by to Dad not long ago. He was frail and tired, but yet strangely, still the same big man that had lifted me up from that crashed little read bike so many years before. He was dying. We were all there, Mom and the kids. We held his had, touched his face, stroked his hair. We hugged him, cried over him, prayed.

We wanted to hold him—hold him forever, hold him back from his journey t heaven because we loved him and didn’t want to let him go. But we had to because we loved him and knew that he loved us.

We knew that one day we would be together in heaven. We will come back to each other.

We are ours.