tales of a snowy two-wheeled adventure
We went for a bike ride today. I know that those of you who know me well, won’t believe me, but I have a series of photographic proof. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?
To be honest, I have no idea how I came to be riding a bike (???) at all, much less on a day so cold it snowed the night before. You’ve probably surmised by all my posts over the years, outside is not my favorite place. And no one is more shocked than me when I found myself having fun. I’d forgotten how much fun bike riding could be. When I was Sassy’s age, I was only off my bike when I was sleeping. I learned to ride when I was five or six - without the benefit of
training wheels. My father didn’t believe in them.
As I said, it was very cold last night. Ava says there was at least an inch of snow up the hill where she lives. There was none down in the city where my house is, but the mountains were gorgeous.
We finally got the kids dressed and ready to go around 1:00. This is the outfit The Bandit chose for bike riding on a day when it snowed.
Please note the soccer shorts, his shirt is on backwards though you can’t see in the picture, jean’s jacket with Buzz Lightyear on the back and, the piece de resistance, cowboy boots with spurs. I have some concerns that the boy is going to end up as a contestant on Project Runway someday, not that I won’t be proud of him no matter who he ends up, but lets just say, his ability to chose appropriate clothing gives me pause.
We got to the park and unloaded the bikes and The Bandit was off and
running or pedaling as the case may be. Sassy on the other hand immediately launched into hysterical crying – tears, hiccuping, gasping breaths of agony over her fear of riding her bike. A bike, I might add, has training wheels so she can’t fall over.
Her father dealt with her for about a half an hour, coaking and talking and prodding her along. I rode around with Bandit while he giggled wildly, enjoying the freedom that riding down hills and skidding to stops brings.
Finally, I’d had enough. I relieved her father and sent him after the boy who was easily pedaling madly more than 100 yards away. I don’t know why or how I became Drill Sargent Mom, but somehow I did.
“Put your butt on the seat and your feet on the pedals,” I told her.
“I’m scaaaaaaaared.” She could hardly speak, the blubbering was so out of control.
I told her to calm down, “No one can ride a bike when they are hysterical.” I showed her how to push off with one foot and advised her to keep pedaling to avoid tipping. I told her to ride the bike or we’d go sit in the car and wait for everyone else to have fun. Eventually, she surprised only herself when she actually rode the stupid bike. I hate to be so demanding, but I refuse to allow her to be afraid of everything.
There are no pictures of Sassy riding her bike because she spent the entire time crying. The. Entire. Time. I didn’t
bother to take a picture of it. I’m quite certain I won’t need a photograph to remember what she looks like glaring at me. After all, she does it all the time.
I do, however have a pic of me. This is my hand after the dye in my riding gloves
colored the palms of my hands. I can’t get it off with any soap known to man. It looks like a giant bruise. Do you suppose it would work as a viable reason to call in sick?
Also, and I can’t believe I forgot to mention this, but it snowed on us off and on while we rode (or cried). I couldn’t believe it, big fluffy flakes that covered my black jacket. It was surreal. Sassy cried about it. Sigh.