It IS true….
You can’t forget your first experience of riding a bicycle.
Feeling breeze on every inch of your body, feeling of gliding like you’ve got wings is incomparable and everyone who could ride a bike knows what I mean so I think I need to say no more.
I got my first bike when I was in third grade. It was a Hercules, and I used to ride it as fast as my small legs could pedal. But I didn’t learn riding on that bike. I learned riding with my neighbor’s old bicycle in summer vacation after my second grade.
He never lent his bike to anyone but me, my neighbor. He was quite fond of his bike. It was an old bike with no name or stickers on it and was hand painted sky blue with oil-paint. Every afternoon I’d borrow his bike and try to learn riding on my own along the long lane in front of my house, up to the Main Street and back. Balancing came naturally to me but this bike was a little big so I couldn’t put my leg across the middle bar, to the other pedal and was a little anxious to put my leg thru the bars until I gained confidence, So in the beginning I would just put my hands on the handle, my right foot on left pedal and push with my left leg like riding a small three wheel scooter.
I practiced for a few days that way and when I was confident enough that I could perfectly balance this thing; I took my next step and put my left foot on left pedal and instead of putting my right leg through the bars to the right pedal I braved myself and scrambled my right leg OVER the middle bar…. and got stuck…. My right leg hanging on the bar. I couldn’t push myself up and throw my leg all the way down nor could I pull my right leg back to my body (which was hanging on left side of the bike.)
It was around three in the afternoon and no one was in site who could help me; so I just glided awkwardly thru the deserted lane, not knowing what to do and too nervous to brake because I knew my left leg wouldn’t reach the ground either. I was stuck bad.
At the end of the lane there was a shrub and this seemed my last chance and I turned the bike that way without thinking and dashed right into the shrub.
When I got back home, walking with my neighbor’s bike with stinging hands and legs, covered all over in scratches; I took my neighbor’s bike to his closed door and placed it quietly on the wall of his house. The bike was alright except a few scratches, but I knew he’ll know. That was the last time I borrowed his bike.
After a month I got my Hercules and I used to ride it all over the town, until, after two months, it was snapped in two pieces by a speeding motorcycle. But that’s another story.