Motorcycles and Spring

I remember a small girl coasting on the back platform of her tricycle while the early spring sun lit her freckles and the wind tossed her hair like a flag. Her hands were firm on the grips, one foot dropped to the ground and worked furiuosly for more speed. She scooted across the railroad tracks and up the gravel road for home.

Later came a pink bicycle and her world expanded several blocks. She worked her way up the side streets to reach the tops of the steepest hills and race the wind down. Once she fell and smashed a finger. She rode the bike home and asked for help fixing the scratches she had put in the paint. Her mom fixed her finger later.

Then her father brought home an old 125 Honda. She washed and polished it till it shined. He taught her to check the oil, the gas, the chain and the tires. He showed her the controls; clutch on the left, shift on the bottom left, front brake on the right, back brake on the lower right. The he explained how to start it.

She sat on the bike like she was afraid it would run away with her but she was determined to master her fear. She was 11 years old. She turned on the key, check the kill switch, made sure the bike was in neutral, pulled in the clutch, kicked it over. It started every time.

Kick the shift lever down one click, gave it a little gas and let out the clutch. It stalled every time.

Again and again and again, give it just a little gas and ease out the clutch. Her small hand had to work to let that clutch out just a little at a time. It slipped away from her. She started the bike again. She let the lever go too quickly, the bike jump and she almost dropped it.

The sun was getting hot. We watched and suffered with her as she struggled to get the bike rolling. After a while we winced at each jerk of the bike as the clutch slipped from her fingers. Her damp hair straggled out from under the helmet, she shoved it impatiently out of her face. Once again she pulled in the clutch, kicked the bike over, seated herself.

She stared at her left hand as if she would slap it if it failed her again. Intently she kicked the shift lever down, eased out the clutch, gave the bike a little gas and...it rolled! She rode triuphantly through the front yard and around the back yard. The smile she flashed as she came by on the second curcuit was proud.

When she made her third trip around, still in first gear, I looked at my man and smiled. His girl was up and riding! He smiled warmly back at me. He signaled her to stop. She pulled in the clutch and coasted a little before she got the brake on, but kept the bike up. He spoke to her a minute then stepped back and watched as she almost smoothly rode off to circle the house again.

I knew she would make mistakes, have her own tumbles and still, with loving support, get back on and have the joy of riding for the rest of her life. My conflicting feelings that day surprised me. Half of me had cried each time the bike died and half of me wanted her away from that thing before she hurt herself.

I wondered, as I watched her, if my Mom felt so torn when she watched me trying to ride the 90 Suzuki. I was nine and my Dad was teaching me to ride. I got around the house once and then tried to stop. I missed the big pine tree but drove into the porch steps; they went about eight feet before I found the brakes. I was so tickled that I had made the bike go that the poor stop didn't scare ME, but now I think it must have scared Mom.

I want to thank you, husband, for helping me get back into bikes. And thanks, Dad, for teaching me, I still hear you laughing as I ride. And, Mom, I'm sorry if watching me learn made you crazy but thanks for letting me ride. And thanks to you all, from the girl.

P.S. This year the girl's boy of nine was taught to ride his mini bike. Passing it on.