I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was in 5th grade. I tried, every summer, but I just couldn’t get the hang of it (I suspect, in retrospect, this has a physical cause). Then, finally, I did. And I liked the freedom it gave me, but I never really liked it. I was always afraid I was going to fall. And, once I got my driver’s license, I don’t think I rode a bike again.
But I’m thinking of one summer, before I actually got it, when we were out on the driveway and I don’t remember anyone pushing me into practicing. Like neither of my parents were forcing me to ride my bike, but I remember one of them being behind me as I was on training wheels and I remember crying and them saying “You’re doing it, look, you’re doing it,” but I was crying too had to care. All I wanted was to get off that motherfucking bike and never get back on.
This is a metaphor for my morning.