The Red Bicycle

I remember the day Dad bought me the red bicycle. It was brand new, and I laughed because even sitting on it, my feet didn’t reach the ground.

Mum didn’t agree. She thought it was too big, too dangerous. But Dad hadn’t been able to say no to me. That was the one I wanted.

I had inherited my big sister’s bicycle, with its training wheels. But I wanted a bicycle of my own, a brand-new one. And since all my friends were riding without training wheels, I had decided to do the same. Even though I had never tried. Dad couldn’t say no to me that time either.

I asked him to take the bicycle outside. It was so big and heavy that I couldn’t even do that on my own. He looked at me with his smile and asked:

“Are you sure you’re ready? Do you want me to hold it?”

“Of course not, Dad. I’m a big girl now. I’m going to do it on my own.”

So he went back inside.

I climbed onto the bicycle, leaning against the wall. My feet still didn’t touch the ground. I tried to push off, lost my balance and nearly fell. When I turned around, Dad was at the window. He was watching me, worried, but smiling.

“Do you want some help?”

“No, Dad. I can do it.”

I got back on with the help of the wall. I tried again, without managing it. I turned around: he was still there, at the window.

“Go for it,” he told me. “You can do it. Don’t stop.”

So I pushed off. For Dad.

And then I pedalled. I was really moving! I shouted with joy: I was riding like a big girl. Then boom, I fell. But I had gone further than before.

“I did it! Did you see? Did you see?”

“Yes, I saw. Well done, my girl.”

I got back on again and again. Each time, I went a little further, until I stopped falling.

Dad bought me a red bicycle. I remember that bicycle. But above all, I remember Dad at the window, watching his little girl who wanted to ride like a big girl, and whom he had never been able to say no to.