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Two new showrooms/office spaces, double height (135 sq m each with bath) for lease in upscale Campal/Miramar beach area, Panaji, Goa. Contact: [email protected] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Learning to ride a cycle The moment you have to let go By Cecil Pinto Unlike today, the transition from a tricycle to a cycle for kids of my generation was not immediate. I outgrew tricycles when I was maybe four years old but only learnt to cycle much later at the age of around ten. Understand of course that this was the 1970s where wasteful consumption was not the order of the day and you didn’t pedal your way through five bicycles of increasing sizes before you even reached high school. Back then you were lucky if you got a bicycle at the age of about ten or twelve and this pretty much had to serve you till you finished college. Your first motorbike you purchased with your own money once you started working, unlike today when spoilt young brats of rich parents are driving motorbikes before they even grow facial hair. As a twelfth birthday gift my elder brother Charles got a brand new BSA SLR cycle. These were the new advanced bikes at the time with caliper-cable brakes and curved handle bars. The only other bikes available were the standard man’s cycle with straight handles and rod-lever brakes. This classic working class sturdy design is still my bike of choice. Charles had already learnt cycling on a neighbour’s bike and so he was up and about from day one. On the rare occasion when the bike was left unattended I used to make my solo attempts at learning to ride it unaided, in the secluded privacy provided by a large hall at my grandfather’s house. The procedure consisted of me mounting the bike from a conveniently placed chair at one end of the hall. Pushing at this chair with one leg would propel me forward a few meters. Braking was achieved by the simple expedient of banging the moving cycle against the closed front door and falling down. I pretty much learnt to balance using this simple technique but the braking procedure must have taken its toll on the front wheel and suspension of the bike. Eventually Charles condescended to teach me how to ride the cycle properly. A rarely used mud road near our Aldona house was the chosen venue. Taking support from a laterite wall (durig) I mounted the bike and then Charles pushed me forward while simultaneously shouting at me to start pedaling. I did, and was amazed at my ability to propel myself. Realising that Charles voice had grown faint I looked back to see he was many meters away. I was cycling all by myself. I was flying. Thrilled, I pedaled away and in a fit of bravado tried ringing the cycle’s bell. I must have done something wrong because the damned bell just feel off. I looked back at the bell on the road and suddenly (DISHUM!) found myself landing on my backside, with the cycle on top of me, in a thorny ‘boram’ bush. I painfully extricated myself from the bush while hearing Charles’ curses as he examined his bike for signs of damage. That was my first proper encounter with a cycle but subsequent sessions were not so painful and I soon mastered the skill. Many, many years later, as the man of the house, it became my duty to teach my then four year old son Desmond how to ride a bicycle. Of course the task was made that much easier by the addition of training wheels. After weeks of using his small cycle like a tricycle, with the training wheels, Desmond was ready for the big day. I took the training wheels off and there we were, ready to perform the father-son ritual that has been standard through many generations since the bicycle was invented two centuries back. I ran alongside him as he pedaled, my hand at the back of his seat ever so gently helping him to maintain balance. One lap of about 100 meters was quite exhausting. Even though Desmond, like most kids, got his balance right immediately he needed to have constant peripheral visual contact to know that I was by his side. One more lap, with me just running by his side, was all it took. My younger son Fabian though learnt differently once the training wheels were removed. He propelled himself sans pedals but by using his feet on the road on either side. Once he got his balance right he then experimented with the pedals and in less than five minutes mastered the art of pedaling. All this while of course I had to jog along, panting and shouting encouragement. Most mothers cherish their children’s first steps. The day your child learns to cycle is, I think, equally significant. There is an important rite of passage in that ritual; a breaking away, an independence of sorts. Think back to your childhood. Do you remember your first footsteps? No. Do you remember learning to ride a cycle? Yes. See what I mean. It also is an important stage for the father, that crucial moment when he lets go of the cycle and sees his kid wobbling away into the distance. This is the magic moment when he realizes not only that his kid can go places without him, but also that he himself is hopelessly unfit. You try running one lap, slightly stooped over, semi-supporting a heavy weight and shouting encouragement simultaneously, and then talk to me. This is in fact a very good argument for marrying early and having your kids soon. Marrying late and having kids even later may seem cool and ultra-modern but when you’re 45 and running behind a tiny cycle you may not even live to regret your decision. ----------- The column above appeared in Gomantak Times dated 3rd September 2009 =====
