Justin learned to ride a bike today. It was just a little two-wheeler we borrowed from a friend, much too small for him, but safe to practice on. He had tried riding it the day we got it (as Justin put it, "We got it yesterday's yesterday"), but the back tire was flat. We threw it in the back of our car, headed for our local bike shop, got a new tire, and brought the little bike home.
      It's been raining ever since. Finally, this afternoon, the rain let up for a while. The sky stayed gray and threatening and there were big puddles all over our street, but I couldn't let the opportunity pass.
     "Hey, Justin, want to go out and try your bike?"

     He's up in a flash, pulling on jeans, a red hooded sweatshirt and socks. He struggles with his sneakers and I help with laces and Velcro. We adjust his helmet, strap on blue plastic knee pads and elbow pads, and he's ready to go.
     Justin wheels the bike out to our neighbor's big, wide driveway. He towers over the tiny frame. He'll be six in three weeks, and he's tall with long legs. He easily straddles the seat with his knees bent and his feet flat on the ground. If he falls, he doesn't have far to go.
     Justin tries to push off with his feet. He swerves and catches himself, again and again. Finally, he asks for a push and I give him a little running start. Then I let go. He gets his feet around on the pedals a few times before he veers off into the bumper of our neighbor's car. I push start him a few more times. Each time I let go, he goes a little further before he falls over, subdued by gravity.
     Just twenty minutes after we start, he's pedaling by himself. He has to crash to stop, but he's delighted with himself. Gleefully he proclaims: "I did it!"

     Watching Justin, I'm brought back to my first time: in the Elberon School parking lot on my blue Schwinn with fat tires and wide blue fenders. I was in first grade and my cousin Stuart was pushing me from behind. Suddenly I realized he wasn't holding on anymore. I flew, terrified and thrilled, toward the small curb that was to be my demise. I flew over the handlebars, crashed, and lay winded on the ground. I don't remember if I cried or not. I just know I got back on the bike and did it again.
     So does Justin. He brushes himself off and in an instant, he's off. Over and over, he attempts to find his balance. He's wobbly, fearless, and determined.
     The whole time he's weaving and falling, he keeps up a running commentary: "Hey, Mama, I'm going to coast uphill!" "Mama, we should put all these clothes in a special place -- they're my bike riding clothes!" "Whoa! That wasn't where I was planning to go!" "I really meant to do that! I wanted to fall." "I can ride it, but it sure takes longer to control it, doesn't it Mama?" And after the first hour, "Mama, look at all the skills I've learned! When I get my big bike for my birthday, I'm not going to need training wheels! I'm not going to need them at all!" I feel such a surge of love for his Justin-ness: verbal, even in this most physical of moments.

     After a while, Justin sets the bike down and says, "I think I need a little break. I'm running out of breath." He sits down next to me on the curb, and looks at me expectantly: "I'm just going to sit here so we can enjoy each other."
     He starts right in: "Mama, I've got a question for you since you're really good at riding bikes. Why does the brake pedal stop the bike?"
     We examine the bike together, but the mechanism isn't readily apparent to me. "I don't know Justin. But I bet we can look in your book The Way Things Work."
     "Or we can find out on the Internet."
     I smile, enjoying our conversation immensely.

     Joan and Emily come around from the back of the house to join us. Emily is perched on Eli's big red metal-frame tricycle. She can barely reach the pedals, but she's fiercely determined, too. Within minutes, she's riding across the empty street and back, "On my own!"
     Joan and I stand at the edge of our driveway, delighting in the physical prowess of our children. I ask her how Daniel learned to ride a bike, something he accomplished years before I had the good fortune to become his stepmom. She says, "He only fell once -- badly -- and then he never fell again."
     We stand together in the cold damp afternoon, relishing the moment. It's a sweet landmark, and we revel in Justin's joy and accomplishment. His pleasure and pride are infectious.

     Half an hour later, Joan and Emily go to the store and I trot alongside Justin as he rides up and down our deserted street. He practices turns and seeing how far he can go in one stretch. After a mild crash, he picks himself up, turns to me and says, "When I make my first friend in our new neighborhood, I sure hope he can ride a bike!"
     Justin rides up and down our street. He's getting faster and I'm having a hard time keeping up with him. He's riding through puddles and getting fancy. I can see this isn't going to take long at all. In a couple of years, he'll be riding to friends' houses and doing wheelies. Before I know it, he'll be out there lurching around in our old Toyota, learning to drive.
     But in this moment, this absolutely perfect moment, the sun is setting and he is careening through a puddle, soaking wet and thrilled with himself. And I have the good fortune to simply be there, heart open, sharing his joy.

     It's getting dark. I tell Justin it's time to head home. He takes off. I run after him, but he's already out of sight. I round the corner and see him standing in our driveway, helmet tilted on his head, grinning at me. "Did you see how far I went Mama? I didn't fall once. Isn't that amazing?"
     "Yes, Justin. It was amazing."
     Then we go inside. I peel off his wet, muddy clothes and suddenly he slumps, exhausted. "My muscles hurt!" he says. I draw him a hot bath and later, before bed, Joan gives him a massage.
     It's my turn to tuck him in. I climb into his bed for his nighttime snuggie. He says, "Let's talk about the things we felt and observed about riding bikes. Okay, Mama?" And we do.
     When he starts yawning, I tell him he can ride bikes in his dreams all night long. And tomorrow, that we can do it again. He sighs happily, his wheels turning, and rides off to sleep.