Creative fun in
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by Fyn -
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2248867
Lessons learned along the way. 4-2-2021


My eighth birthday present
was far better than my seventh
or, so I thought.

Seven was
a non-birthday substitute.
We needed a new septic tank.
Was fine while I thought
it was a castle. Then they buried it.

Eight was a pink and purple
two-wheeled bike. Long sparked
streamers cascaded out of the handles,
a flowered basket was on the front,
and I, I
was terrified of it.

I already had a horse,
could canter her bareback,
jump streams and fences
without a worry.
Could trust my house--
she was alive and she understood
me without a doubt.

The bike
was steel and spokes.
It wobbled.
It was a thing.
It didn't
It had a mind of its own.
I didn't trust it.

Nine, ten, eleven.
I'd try,
every so often.
Graveled driveway,
dirt roads--much
easier on a horse.

My friends didn't know
I couldn't ride a bike.
Queen of excuses,
I always one reason
or another.
Until I didn't.

Girlfriend suggested
I try her little brother's old bike.
It was a little kids bike,
beat up
with a dented fender
and more rust than paint.

Three friends staring at me.
No excuse was going to work.
I was doomed to be the butt
of so much teasing.
Didn't want to be teased, made fun of.

Didn't matter that they
were all afraid of horses.
They could ride a bike.
It was a little bike--my feet
could touch the ground
balance on the seat.
Paved road, smooth, even.

I held my breath,
closed my eyes
and pedaled.
It worked. Turned,
stopped when
I wanted it to.
No big deal.

That night, at home,
I tried my bike.
I promptly rode--
it into our jeep.
Bashed the wheel,
broke my nose
and my glasses.

But I rode it.
And somewhere
along the way, I figured
something out.
It wasn't the bike
I didn't trust enough.

It was me.

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