I was little. Very, very much so. In that time that comes before the time when you know you’re little. Before the time you know you are. The movement dazzled me. Anything that meant going out there, walking the path…
People’s legs went by. I got hypnotised. That fast, agile pacing. Freedom.
The girls’ roller-skates glided by. I got hypnotized. That graceful zig-zagging, around me. Freedom.
Above all else, bicycles. Oh, the bikes. That wonderful miracle of the perfect balance, of the effortless riding, the wind, the wind, the wind… That was flying, I was sure. Freedom. More, way more than freedom. The very absence of the oppression of time and space, of being anything for anyone. Simply to be in motion, like a bird that has nowhere, and no reason, to come back…
May I go? No. Too soon. Time for training wheels.
I hated those wheels. Hated. They left everything stuck. Did this dreadful noise. It felt like being tied up. Mortal hatred. But it wasn’t my time yet. My big sister, yes. The neighbour, also. The other kid, from the building next to ours. My older cousin.
And then, it started… Skinned knees, bumps on foreheads, wrecked toes, wrecked everything! And blood, blood, blood. Tears. So many tears. And there they went again. And again. And again. Swallowing hard, I asked my sister about the accidents. She said:
“There’s no other way. Nobody learns if not by crashing.”
I pulled back. Wasn’t for me, all that drama. Thanks but no, thanks. I could very well live without riding bikes, couldn’t I? Yes. But no. Yes, but, then, what to do with that desire to fly? I could. Yes. But, then, what to do with myself?…
A few years went by. I was already too big. Too old. Eleven! Who would learn at that age? Me! I would. Even if it would take my whole life. And the help of my sister. My aunt. My other aunt…
Today is the day. No, it’s not. Almost made it, but I lost the balance. And the courage. Not sure which one first. Both. Almost made it again. Was going well. In straight lines. But couldn’t turn the corners. Having to change course, I fell. And falling, it hurt. And hurting, I pulled back. I would never know how to do that. Never. It was, simply put, against the laws of nature. Against my own, at least, it was. But, oh, the wind… and the feeling of being almost, almost, almost…
End of the summer holidays. My older cousin took over the task. A small street, a tiny little hill, an enormous will to go and then…
I went! How? How did it happen? The sudden balance… Where did it come from? Didn’t know. Didn’t care. Still don’t. Now, more then ever. Me and the bike were one. I was flying. Freedom. Passion. Obsession. There weren’t enough hours in that first day for me to ride. And to go up the hill, and back down. In the fastest possible speed. More and more. Happy, so happy. But it hurt. A lot. At first, for riding too much. Other times, later on, a lot of them, because I crashed. Got skinned. Bled. And I still have quite a lot of fear in me. Every now and then, I pull back. But I always end up going on the bike again… Flying is all there is. I simply must go on…