I want to give biking one last try — once more, before we head back to reality tomorrow.

It is sunrise on a Florida Key. My husband's still asleep in our rental cottage. On my way back to our room, I pass by two bikes for guest use, propped against the wall.

Yesterday, as my husband looked on, I tried to mount but couldn't get on, pedal and keep my balance at the same time. I tried hard to remember. It's like patting your head and your stomach at the same time. My one attempt gave me a purple bruise. The bruise on my ego, as I saw my husband's amused expression, was even worse. For goodness sake, I'm 31. I should know how to do this, right?

People claim once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget.

I have forgotten.

Honest.

Before today, I've ridden on a bike twice in my life. I try to conjure up the image of getting on and balancing on a bike, but nothing comes to me. Instead, this is what I remember:

I am 12, and my father rents a girl's bike for me on a Sunday afternoon. We are at a park. The bike path is wide, circular and as uncrowded as an obstacle course. I finally get on the bike and go, a big welt on my leg evidence of my painful attempts. I am going along, wobbly, at a snail's pace. I will hit the left sidewalk at any moment, so I veer sharply to the right. There are cars parked on that side. Like a driver drawn to an accident scene, I find myself involuntarily drawn to a car as I steer to avoid it. I hit the bumper and collapse in a heap.

Fast forward. I am now 18. I want to buy my friend's old bike. The seat is high for me, but it's cheap, so I will try it. I am going down a hill and see a Chrysler LeBaron convertible coming up the other way. Why, it's a guy I have a crush on.

The pressure is on to impress. I coast slowly, then the bike speeds up thanks to gravity. In a moment, I will crash into his car. My "crush" stops and watches me incredulously. At the last minute, I veer to the left. Even as I laugh (he isn't smiling), I know my chances of a date with him are gone with the Schwinn.

Now back to this moment. Today could be different. I am alone. And there is a bike with my name on it. The worst that would happen is I would fall off the road and into the bushes or crash into the stinky mud flats. Big deal. I've washed diapers before.

I wheel the bike around and brace myself against the wall. Then I think, no, I can't do this.

Just as I am about to give up, a memory comes back to me. Sierra, my daughter, is 6. She is learning to ride a bike without training wheels. I hold the seat and handle bars, trying to help her keep her balance. Every time she inches forward, I anticipate a fall and hold on to the bike. She falls and gives me an angry look. Finally, I just stand back and say, "Go. Do it."

She falls a few more times, and I clamp my lips shut, silently cheering her on. Her wobbly attempts get straighter and straighter, more sure and balanced. Then, her eyes get huge, disbelieving. I know she's got it. Her face splits into a huge grin.

My daughter's not here, but I feel her presence. She's telling me, "Go. Do it." I imagine her, standing back and watching me. Silently cheering me on.

I push down on a pedal with one foot, then follow slowly with the other. I am falling, then I am not. I am pedaling slowly, unbelievably down the driveway and down the road. I am flying. I am free.
The sun warms my back, and the breeze cools my face. I inhale the tangy smell of sea. The lush trees dissolve into a blur. Mud flats seem nonexistent. There are no cars this early in the morning. It's just me, the bike and a road of adventure ahead.

I think of the times my children learn a new skill: tying shoelaces, writing their names. I remember their reluctance, doubts and frustration. I remember my encouragement, instruction and impatience. Then, just when they're about ready to give up, they give it one more try and grin with exultation.

I can't wait to show my daughter what she taught me today.

Article was published Jan. 13, 2003 in the Utah Deseret News. ( link to article)
Jewel Punzalan Allen is a freelance writer from Grantsville.