When my youngest brother (Mohair Sam) was about five years old, I decided it was time to take the training wheels off his little black toddler Huffy and teach him how to ride on two wheels. Everyone was busy and I must have been bored that day or some shit.
Anyway, I took him outside to the far end of the front yard, which has a long stretch of sidewalk perfect for Mohair's first lesson in Cycling 101: Don't Eat Shit.
While straddling his bike and with both feet firmly planted on the ground, he listened to my instructions to start pedaling as soon as I gave him a push. In his shrill 5-year old voice, he made me promise not to let go. Not, "don't let go too soon" or "don't let go until I'm ready", he simply asked me not to let go.
It was the only time I have ever broken a promise to him.
But he didn't make me pinkyswear which means its totally legit. Legal loophole for the win!
With one hand on the handlebars and the other on the back of his seat, I told him to put his little feet on the pedals. With no center of balance, the bike wobbled a bit, but we held on (since I was only about a foot taller than he was at the time, it made it easy for me, I didn't have to hunch over like normal-sized people. Thanks, midget-genes!). We started moving, and I ran with him a bit while he became more confident in his pedaling. After a few laps back and forth across the yard, I told him now I would hold on to only the back of his seat.
He eyed me nervously. "Ok, but don't let go. Or else I'll fall."
We started again, and as soon as I knew the bike was being propelled by Mohair and not by me, I let go. For about a minute, I watched as he effortlessly made his way down the sidewalk, proud that I had taught him how to do it on the first try.
Until he casually happened to glance over his shoulder to ask how to make turns, and he realized there was no one there. Rather than be proud that he was doing it all by himself, he freaked out that his safety net was gone. He stopped pedaling immediately and went crashing spectacularly on the lawn. With all the rage that a five-year old can muster, he shot back up and charged at me.
"YOU LET GO! I CRASHED! THAT WAS YOUR FAULT!"
And he stormed into the house.
The fact that I laughed when he ate it and was still laughing when he shrieked at me probably didn't help. I followed him into the house and demanded that he go do it again.
"No. I'll fall again."
"No you won't. Just keep pedaling and you'll stay up. If you need to stop, just pedal backwards and put your feet down."
(I'm totally aware that I pushed him off on a bike without telling him how to stop. I'm the best teacher ever.)
After a bit of cajoling, he came out again and got back on the bike. This time, I only took enough steps to give him a good shove, reminding him to pedal to stay upright.
And I let go. And off he went.
He could turn, stop, and ride up and down the sidewalk just like a big kid. He was beside himself with glee, hopping up and down and bursting with pride. The entire lesson took about half an hour.
This morning, I dropped off a now 18-year old Mohair Sam at Loyola Marymount University for an overnight orientation. He will meet potential new classmates, get to know the school that will be home for the next four years, and pick his fall classes. The five-year old who made me promise not to let go is long gone, replaced with a lanky teenager who has been taller than me since he was eleven years old. Regardless, I couldn't help but notice how he checked his bag twice to make sure he had everything, how he held his breath and made a wish in the terminal tunnel, and how he nearly shit himself with excitement when he saw a plane take off when we passed LAX.
When we got to campus, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stood for a second, as if he wasn't sure what to do next, waiting for someone to guide him. He smiled anxiously. I could see the cap on his front tooth, and it reminds me of the day he took a baseball to the face. To this day I don't remember how I got to him so fast, I may have even shoved kids out of the way. All I remember was being in the stands and then being on the field, where he plowed his face into my chest so his teammates wouldn't see the blood or tears. He was still smaller than me then.
"I'm kinda nervous now, dude."
"You'll be fine. Do you want me to go with you to check in?"
He thinks for a second. "No. I think I'm ok. Thanks dude."
We hi-fived and fist bumped, as we always do.
And I let go. And off he went.
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