At the bike shop my parents picked out a two-year-old Schwinn Catalina, dowdy and slow, not sleek and speedy like my friend Russell's yellow, banana-seat Sting-Ray. I was deeply and silently disappointed, but any bike was better than none, and dowdy or not, at least I'd have wheels.

All I needed now was to learn how to ride. I had envisioned the classic scene: my dad and me out in the street, him pushing me gently from behind then letting go while I, unawares, glided solo across the asphalt. "You're doing it! You're doing it!" my father would cry out.

What was I thinking? My father never cried out, ever. He was an introverted man, an engineer who spent his spare time reading and working in the garage with oscilloscopes and soldering irons. He had done his part by getting me the bike; the learning-to-ride part was up to me.

And so one night after dinner, with the Southern California summer sun perched in the upper branches of the orange trees that lined our back fence, I went to the garage, walked past my father at his workbench, and rolled the Catalina out onto the backyard patio. Through the sliding glass doors of the living room, I could see my mother and sister at the dining room table, hunched together over my sister's homework.

I stood, poised, with the bike at one end of the patio, the right pedal rotated to the top of its orbit, imagining myself a cycling protégé. "Her first push and she was ready for the streets, a natural we've never seen the likes of!"

When I'd convinced myself of my latent talent, I lifted my right leg over the curved down tube, placed my foot on the pedal and pushed down hard. I lifted off and the bike rolled forward. I did not put my left foot on the left pedal, but let it dangle, ready to save me from disaster. Nor did I try to sit on the seat . I simply stood on the right pedal and rolled, and it quickly became obvious that skill was going to be acquired the hard way.

Back and forth, push and roll, as the sun sifted down through the citrus leaves and the heat lifted away from the cement beneath me, until I felt comfortable enough for the next step.

I looked over to the now lamp-lit living room. My mother and sister were playing cards. My father was in his chair, reading a book. I kept rolling, unnoticed, into the darkness of that night and several more after that, and though I repeatedly hoped my father would come out and teach me the secret to balance and grace, he never did.

§ § §

Chris Mastin lives in Missoula, Montana with her husband, their dog Luke, and their two cats.

Her short stories have appeared in Word Riot, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Women's Voices, the just-released anthology, Zebulon Nights, by WordRiot Press, and KnitLit Too: From Sheep to Shawl, an anthology to be published in January 2004.

Chris is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte in Charlotte, North Carolina.

 

This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.

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