A Red Bike and a Juniper Bush

While most girls my age were in tap or jazz, I was in gymnastics and learning to ride a bike.  Mom wouldn’t let me learn tap because I made too much noise all ready and jazz wasn’t my thing because it was too girly.  Gymnastics won out because I fell all the time and Mom figured that if I was going to fall, I better learn how to do it correctly.  This was probably why she was okay with Dad teaching me how to ride a bike without the training wheels

Part of my problem growing up was that I did everything at high speed.  I didn’t mean to knock out my two front teeth four years before their time and I didn’t mean to get stitches on my knee by jumping off my parent’s bed.  I just did things before I thought about them. 

Maybe this was why it took me awhile to finally convince Dad that it was a good idea to teach me to ride like all big girls did.  I didn’t even ask Mom. 

The day finally came.  It was a bright, sunny June in Boise, not too hot and not too cold.   Flowers were blooming all over the quiet cul-de-sac and our grass was all ready exceptionally tall.   

Dad wheeled my bright red bike, minus training wheels, out of the two car garage to one end of the circle drive.  I was bouncing around him the whole way. 

“I’m going to learn to ride like a big girl today!”  I hopped over a crack in the gray cement. 

“Yes you are.”  Dad smiled at me.  If he was worried, he didn’t show it. 

Dad held my bike for me while I climbed on, which took me awhile because I had my helmet, elbow guards, wrist guards, and knee pads on.  This was a house rule.  I couldn’t participate in any dangerous outdoor activity unless I was fully protected.  This still didn’t keep me from getting cuts and bruises, but it did prevent more major injuries, except for the time I was learning to do jumps on my rollerblades a few years later.  I lost a lot of skin on that one. 

My two year old brother waddled out, dragging his teddy bear and sucking his thumb.  His blonde hair was sticking up in the back.   He plopped down on the front step, presumably to watch me work my magic, but I never knew with him.  Mom stayed inside. I think she didn’t want to see anything bad happen. 

“Okay, Jana,” my dad said, “I want you to bike to the end of the circle drive, turn around, and come back to me.” 

This was going to be easy!  “Got it!”  I was wiggling in my seat and he was having trouble holding the bike steady. 

“Are your shoes tied?” he asked.  He looked at my white light up shoes to make sure the blue laces were tied tightly. 

“Yeah.”  I bounced some more.   “Come on, Dad!  I want to go!” 

“Watch the juniper bushes at the end.”  He pointed them out to me.  That seems like a trivial action, but it actually was quite important to a five year old.  I wasn’t expected to remember that those bushes were called junipers. 

“You’re only saying that cuz you’re allergic.”  It was true, and still is. 

“Okay.  I’m letting go, which means you have to pedal.”  Again, this may sound trivial, but I really would have forgotten to pedal.  It’s one of those things that only makes sense to a kid.  I nodded. 

“Three, two, one, blast off!”  He gave me a small shove and sent me on my thirty yard journey. 

I felt like I was flying.  Grass and driveway whizzed past me at top speed. 

Unfortunately, at this rate, the driveway got a lot shorter than I remembered and the juniper bushes got a lot bigger.

I forgot what I was supposed to do.  All I remembered was that I had to keep pedaling.  Was I supposed to turn right and go into the street or turn left into the driveway?  Where were the brakes?  Indecision paralyzed me which wasn’t the best thing to do in this case because that meant that I kept going straight.  My shiny red bike buried itself halfway into those dratted scratchy, stinky, stupid juniper bushes, and sent me flying into them. 

“Melp!” I said.  My arms and legs flailed around, making everything worse.  I heard running feet and felt Dad’s strong arms lift me out of the dumb bushes.  He hugged me and I’m pretty sure I remember him laughing.  I buried my face into the collar of his polo and let out a few sobbing hiccups. 

“I forgot to turn!”

“I saw that.  How’s your face?” he asked, pushing my hair out of my eyes.  Apparently I was a bit allergic to the juniper bushes as well.  My skin was covered in a red rash that itched and stung like mad.  

“Can I try again?” I asked.  I sniffed and wiggled out of his arms. 

This was just the beginning.