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My son learned to ride his bike yesterday. There was a moment, on our tiny road sided by French vineyards and tiny paths for the workers tending the vines, there was a moment when the last push came and my son rolled away by himself. He didn’t look back; he looked ahead, rolling with a big smile into the future of his life.
I was flooded with feeling. Tiny fears about potholes in the road, traffic, the thorn bushes we had already found a couple of times, these tiny worries were completely overcome by the elation that my son had found something in himself, the joy of riding a bicycle, that the rest of his family had discovered some time ago. He had been left behind and cycling had been one of those things he couldn’t do. Was it because of his disability? Should we find a tricycle to make it easier, should we enroll him in a special school to learn to ride?
His brother, younger by a year and a half, had just gotten the bicycle of his young dreams at a bike shop in Perpignan. The joy on his face a few days before made me proud. I rode with him on our narrow streets in our village and taught him about his new Giant TCR Junior. Brakes first, but they were difficult to reach from the hoods and he rode on the drops. A stone wall and a deep drainage ditch, not to mention assorted traffic, were narrowly avoided. Yesterday we explored the mysteries of the rear derailleur, changing gears on the valley flats between Villelongue dels Monts and Montesquieu des Alberes..JPG)
My wife has been riding as well. I built her a lovely Orbea Onix to celebrate the completion of her doctoral studies (and give her an escape from her dissertation during our travels) and relieve us of the heft of her Trek 1000. She rides with my riding mate and his wife on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
These are French days, when we’re exploring the milieu of country around us, immersed in the sometimes alien, sometimes confusing, every friendly and challenging culture. These are family days, a time of building our relationships with each other, making new patterns in our lives, building a reliance on each other, escaping the separating influences of modern life, if even for a short time. And these are bicycle days: long rides in the mysterious light of the Alberes and the Cote Vermeille, ascending past ancient churches, descending switchback roads and groves of cork oaks, making new friends, exploring limitations, leaving oneself open to perspectives and ideas not yet considered.
Bicycle days. I raise my arms and shout as Johann rolls to a stop at the end of the road. He smiles and rides back to me.
I was flooded with feeling. Tiny fears about potholes in the road, traffic, the thorn bushes we had already found a couple of times, these tiny worries were completely overcome by the elation that my son had found something in himself, the joy of riding a bicycle, that the rest of his family had discovered some time ago. He had been left behind and cycling had been one of those things he couldn’t do. Was it because of his disability? Should we find a tricycle to make it easier, should we enroll him in a special school to learn to ride?
His brother, younger by a year and a half, had just gotten the bicycle of his young dreams at a bike shop in Perpignan. The joy on his face a few days before made me proud. I rode with him on our narrow streets in our village and taught him about his new Giant TCR Junior. Brakes first, but they were difficult to reach from the hoods and he rode on the drops. A stone wall and a deep drainage ditch, not to mention assorted traffic, were narrowly avoided. Yesterday we explored the mysteries of the rear derailleur, changing gears on the valley flats between Villelongue dels Monts and Montesquieu des Alberes.
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My wife has been riding as well. I built her a lovely Orbea Onix to celebrate the completion of her doctoral studies (and give her an escape from her dissertation during our travels) and relieve us of the heft of her Trek 1000. She rides with my riding mate and his wife on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
These are French days, when we’re exploring the milieu of country around us, immersed in the sometimes alien, sometimes confusing, every friendly and challenging culture. These are family days, a time of building our relationships with each other, making new patterns in our lives, building a reliance on each other, escaping the separating influences of modern life, if even for a short time. And these are bicycle days: long rides in the mysterious light of the Alberes and the Cote Vermeille, ascending past ancient churches, descending switchback roads and groves of cork oaks, making new friends, exploring limitations, leaving oneself open to perspectives and ideas not yet considered.
Bicycle days. I raise my arms and shout as Johann rolls to a stop at the end of the road. He smiles and rides back to me.
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