I was winded. My back was starting to ache. And I was wondering how much longer I could keep running up and down the block, pushing my daughter on her new bike and keeping her from falling over.
“You have to pedal,” I reminded her. I suspected my groaning frame was providing most of the thrust, and her feet were just sitting on the pedals, going round for the ride.
“I am pedaling.”
“Good, good.” I didn’t have the breath for much more encouragement. And she was pedaling. The bike was moving faster now; I had to run faster too.
I thought back to when I was my daughter’s age, sitting on my first bike, and how my father had run behind me, one hand on my back and the other on the bicycle seat. Was he winded, I wondered. Did he pause at the end of block, huffing and wheezing, before turning the bike around? If so, I didn’t remember. What I did remember were the important moments: crashing into a tree, the terror when I realized he was no longer holding the bike, the exultation when I realized he wasn’t holding the bike and I was riding it on my own.
A glance at my watch gave me a shot of guilty relief: Supper time. Thank God.
“It’s time to go in,” I said. “We’ll practice some more tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I need a break,” said my daughter. “I’m tired from all that pedaling.”
