I must have been seven or eight years old when I rode my first bicycle, and the day I learned to ride my bike is very memorable to me. My dad was the one who taught me, and he helped me when I got hurt.
It was a bright warm afternoon and the perfect summer day. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the afternoon. I was playing in the back yard with my sister when my father came and told me we were going to buy my bicycle and that it was time for me to learn how to ride a bike.
I went with my father to the shop to pick out the bike. I sat on several little girly bikes and I picked out a purple and pink one that looked just like my sister’s bike. It was awesome. It had pink stripes going up the purple fender that covered the chain and the little hub caps on the training wheels were pink as well.
After a couple of weeks of speeding around on my new bike with the cool little training wheels, my dad decided it was time for the training wheels to come off and I agreed. My dad got out a wrench and began to take off the training wheels. I watched impatiently with each turn of the wrench. It seemed to take forever but finally the training wheels were gone.
My father told me to just put my feet on the pedals and start peddling. He also told me he would hold onto the back of the bike the whole time, yet he didn't. As soon as I started trying to balance myself, he let go. I happened to look back just as he let go. I was scared that I was going to fall and hurt myself and my mind went blank from peddling. I forgot how to use the brakes and fell right off the bike.
I hurt my knees, my elbows and I had some cuts on my hands and legs. It was very painful and I was so scared that I didn’t want to try it again. But after a week or so I decided that I had to do it. Every kid in my age knew how to cycle and they would make fun of me if they found out that I didn’t know how to ride a bike. I also wanted to go with my bike to the park and show to my friends how beautiful it was and...