As the four of us shared our stories of getting our motorcycle licenses, gaining experience in riding, and staying safe, a mutual question was posed to everyone.
“How long have you been riding? Why did you your start?
I drifted away in reflection. AS my mind replayed the images of the first push to get me started riding a bicycle without training wheels. Dad organized at outing on a grassy field, anticipating that it would help cushioned my first fall. It did not long to experience his wisdom! I do not remember how many times I crashed that afternoon. I do recall the joy as I learning to ride!
A few years later a mini-bike powered by a Briggs and Stratton engine, then motorcycles and scooters. By the time I fourteen my summers in Bangalore were filled with rides around town and Whitefield’s farmlands of. It was a time of freedom and learning! I did not always hold up my end of the bargain to ride smart and stay safe. A constant in learning to ride and the growing experiences that followed was the patient and steady helping hand of my father. It was always there.
I am not sure how he managed it. Each disaster of my hand was met with counseling and a gentle accountability that I had to play my part of repairing the aftermath of my actions. If I try to describe his approach, I would paraphrase the psalmist description; “You set boundaries between earth and sea; never again will earth be flooded.” (Psalm 104.9)
“What about you? When did you start?”
Pulled out of my imagination into the present, “I am very lucky. When I was very young I had a helping hand to get me started. He taught me to ride as well as to be cautious. My dad has me riding minibikes and motorcycles by the time I was eleven or twelve.”
Even as I told the story, I released that the helping hand then remains is still there. It is good to know my back is covered.
