Abby is hunched over the purple 12-speed, eyes fixed on the pavement a few feet ahead as she pedals forward. I walk beside her, torso twisted as my left hand grips the back of the seat and my right works to keep the handlebars from wiggling. I feel the bike start to tip, and the muscles in my forearms tighten as I push it upright and hold it steady.

She is almost 8 years old and very excited about this shiny new challenge. I have warned that learning to ride a bike can be tough; reminisced about my own wobbly trips around the block; shown her the scar on my elbow from the spill I took after going too fast, too soon. Physical milestones have never come easily for her, and I don’t want her to get discouraged if it is harder than she thinks. I brace myself for weeks of walking in circles, giving pep talks, bandaging scrapes.

She says she is determined. And from the focused look in her eyes, I see that she is serious.

It is her first lesson, and my husband has already adjusted the seat, taught her to mount and dismount, and explained how the brakes work. I do my best to offer tips that will help: Try to keep the handlebars straight; put your foot down on the ground if you start to fall. But there is only so much I can say.

It is intuitive, the teaching and the learning. I can’t tell her how to find her balance any more than she can tell me when to let go.

—-

She practices every night. Steve goes out with her after dinner, while I’m doing dishes or playing with our 17-month-old, Allie. On the fourth day, I’m folding laundry and watching the lesson through a window. I do a double-take when I see Steve jogging alongside the bike without touching it. I grab Allie and the camera and we walk across the street for a closer look.

Steve tells me Abby’s had her first wipe-out, but as she rides toward us, I don’t see any cuts or scrapes, just a big, triumphant smile. She does a victory lap around the parking lot, and I cheer and clap my hands. Allie starts clapping, too. I try to capture the moment with my camera, and Abby strikes a pose, straddling the bike and smiling wide as she cocks her head to one side and thrusts her hands out as if to say "ta-da!" I’m struck by how grown-up she looks with her long legs and short bob.

Later, I ask my husband: How did you know when to let go?

He says: I felt that my hand was just there. I wasn’t doing anything but running along, trying to keep up with her.

—-

It’s a drizzly Saturday afternoon, and Abby and I are out for a ride. It’s been two weeks since we got the bike. She’s now able to start herself off without a push, and she knows how to change gears.

"C’mon, Mama," she calls, surprising me with a sharp right.

Mud spatters the back of her hot-pink coat as she rides through a puddle, and I shake my head. She asks me what gear I’m in, and I admit that I’m not sure. "Go in front of me," she says, studying the sprockets on my wheels and multiplying out loud. "You’re in sixth," she declares, and when we get home, I see that she is right.

I’m looking forward to more rides like this, just the two of us, as well as trips with the whole family. But I also have to face my mixed feelings. I’m thrilled for Abby, of course, and very proud, but I can’t stop myself from feeling a little sad, too. There’s no way around it: Mastering the bike is another step in her journey forward, and away.

I know there will be times when she gets going too fast and loses control. And I won’t always be there to catch her when she starts to fall.

I know this bike is the beginning of her independence. Before long, she’ll be riding off to friends’ houses. After that, we’ll be making more circles in the parking lot, this time with her behind a different kind of wheel, and me in the passenger seat.

I accept this, but I won’t dwell on it. Instead, I’ll do my best to relax and enjoy the ride.

———

Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.