Just like riding a bike

Barry Brand was four years old, which was old enough to have very strong opinions about almost everything and not quite old enough to understand any of the consequences.

This was a dangerous combination.

His best friend, Marmaduke, was also four years old. Marmaduke’s main hobby was agreeing with Barry.

“Let’s climb that wall.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s see if worms like orange juice.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s put socks on the cat.”

“Okay.”

Marmaduke wasn’t exactly foolish. He simply trusted Barry in the same way that people trust sat-navs.

Unfortunately, Barry’s brain often took routes through rivers.

The boys lived on the same street as each other in London and had celebrated their fourth birthdays a few months before. 

For their presents, both had received shiny new pedal bikes.

Not little balance bikes.

Not strider bikes.

Real bikes.

With pedals.

And brakes.

And opportunities for embarrassment.

For years they had zoomed around on strider bikes like tiny professional racers. They had become very confident.

Too confident, some might say.

Alfie certainly would.

Alfie was Barry’s 8-year-old brother.

Alfie liked rules.

Alfie liked schedules.

Alfie believed crossing out completed items on a checklist was one of life’s greatest pleasures.

He viewed Barry much as a lifeguard views a shark.

With concern.

The day had finally arrived.

Mr Brand and Marjory had both booked a cooler weather day off work specifically to teach the boys how to ride their new bikes.

This was considered wise.

Teaching children to ride bikes in London during a heatwave was apparently listed somewhere between “hugging a cactus” and “wearing a woolly jumper in a sauna.”

At eight o’clock sharp, Marjory and Marmaduke arrived at the Brands’ house.

Marjory had a key.

Usually Marmaduke simply wandered into the house silently like a tiny friendly ghost.

He would just appear in the kitchen.

Nobody knew how.

One moment the room would be empty.

The next moment Marmaduke would be eating a banana.

Today, however, Marjory insisted on ringing the bell.

“Ding dong!”

Mr Brand opened the door.

“Morning!”

“Morning!”

Marmaduke immediately walked past everyone and headed toward the cereal cupboard.

“Still not waiting for permission then?” said Mr Brand, grinning.

“No,” said Marmaduke honestly.

“Fair enough.”

Breakfast was cheerful chaos.

Barry explained sixteen different cycling strategies.

Most involved speed.

One involved ramps.

One involved attaching a cape.

Alfie listened with increasing horror.

“That’s not how bicycles work,” he said.

Barry shrugged, “How do you know?”

“I’ve read about them.”

Barry and Marmaduke exchanged a look.

Reading about bicycles sounded suspiciously like not riding bicycles.

After breakfast everyone wheeled the bikes around the corner to the park.

The bikes gleamed.

The helmets gleamed.

The knee pads gleamed.

The elbow pads gleamed.

The boys did not gleam.

They were already sticky with excitement.

As they entered the park, a flash of movement appeared near the bushes.

“Bubble!” shouted Marmaduke.

His cat was crouched low in the undergrowth.

Bubble was stalking something.

Possibly a pigeon.

Possibly a leaf.

Possibly an imaginary criminal.

Nobody could be sure.

Bubble looked up briefly.

His expression seemed to say:

I am busy. Please do not interfere with important cat business.

Then he disappeared into the bushes.

The cycling lessons began.

Mr Brand held Barry’s bike.

Marjory held Marmaduke’s.

The boys climbed aboard.

They looked magnificent.

For approximately three seconds.

Then they fell over.

Not dramatically.

Just sideways.

Fortunately they were wearing helmets, knee pads and elbow pads.

These immediately justified their existence.

THUMP.

“Oof.”

THUMP.

“Ow.”

THUMP.

“I’m okay!”

THUMP.

“I meant to do that.”

After half an hour, Barry had developed a theory. “I think the bike is trying to throw me off.”

“The bike is not trying to throw you off,” said Alfie.

“It definitely is.”

“It doesn’t have feelings.”

“It feels mean.”

Another hour passed.

The parents jogged.

The boys wobbled.

The grass suffered.

Barry managed four metres.

Marmaduke managed six.

Then Marmaduke crashed into Barry.

Neither had been travelling fast enough to be dangerous.

They simply toppled into a heap.

A nearby squirrel rolled its eyes.

By lunchtime everyone was tired.

Including the bikes.

At least the bikes looked tired.

Ice creams were purchased.

The boys sat on a bench wearing helmets and eating strawberry cones.

“Learning is hard,” said Barry.

“Very hard,” agreed Marmaduke.

“What have you learned?” asked Mr Brand.

Barry considered.

“Ice cream helps.”

“Anything else?”

“Falling over is quicker than cycling.”

Alfie sighed deeply.

He sighed the way old professors sigh in films.

The sigh of someone who has seen civilisation crumble.

After lunch the boys returned to battle.

The battle was mostly against gravity.

Gravity was winning.

Barry’s biggest problem was looking where he wanted to go.

If he looked at a tree, he rode toward the tree.

If he looked at a bench, he rode toward the bench.

If he looked at a pigeon, the pigeon became extremely concerned.

“Look ahead!” shouted Mr Brand.

“I am looking ahead!”

“No, you’re looking at a dog!”

The dog quickly moved.

Wise dog.

Meanwhile Marmaduke had discovered another issue.

He forgot to pedal.

He would start brilliantly.

Then become distracted.

Then stop pedalling.

Then wonder why the bicycle had stopped.

“It keeps slowing down,” he complained.

“That’s because you’ve stopped moving your legs,” said Marjory.

Marmaduke looked astonished.

“Oh.”

This happened seven more times.

By mid-afternoon everyone was exhausted.

Even Alfie.

Especially Alfie.

He had spent five hours watching avoidable mistakes.

For a sensible seven-year-old, this was emotionally demanding.

At one point Barry attempted to demonstrate a “racing start.”

Nobody had asked for a demonstration.

Barry simply felt the world deserved one.

He pushed off enthusiastically.

The bike shot forward.

For two glorious seconds he looked like a champion.

Then he remembered steering existed.

The bike drifted gently into a patch of daisies.

Barry tipped over.

The daisies survived.

Barry survived.

His dignity was less fortunate.

“I nearly won,” he announced from the grass.

“There wasn’t a race,” said Alfie.

“I nearly won anyway.”

Around four o’clock something remarkable happened.

Barry rode ten metres.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Without falling.

Without (much) wobbling.

Without aiming at wildlife.

“LOOK!” he screamed.

Everyone looked.

This was dangerous because it distracted Mr Brand, who walked directly into a bin.

But it was worth it.

Barry was cycling.

Actually cycling.

The real thing.

He completed a wide circle and returned.

His grin was enormous.

“I DID IT!”

“You did!” shouted Mr Brand.

Barry immediately fell over while celebrating.

But that hardly mattered.

Moments later Marmaduke managed something similar.

His technique was unusual.

His steering was creative.

His facial expression suggested he was defusing a bomb.

But he was cycling.

Marjory cheered.

Marmaduke cheered.

A passing jogger cheered despite having absolutely no idea what was happening.

Success is contagious.

For the next hour the boys practised.

They still crashed.

Quite a lot.

But now they crashed after cycling.

This was progress.

As the sun began lowering in the sky, they made one final attempt.

Side by side.

Barry and Marmaduke pushed off.

Pedalled.

Wobbled.

Recovered.

Pedalled again.

Around the path they went.

Past the bench.

Past the playground.

Past a confused pigeon.

Past Mr Brand and Marjory.

Past Alfie.

For nearly a whole minute they stayed upright.

When they finally stopped, everyone applauded.

Even Alfie smiled.

A little.

Not a huge smile.

More of a carefully approved smile.

The sort of smile that had completed a risk assessment.

“You’ve learned,” he admitted.

Barry gasped.

Praise from Alfie was rarer than sunshine in a British weather forecast.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Am I an expert now?”

“No.”

“A professional?”

“No.”

“A legend?”

“Definitely no.”

Barry thought about this.

“What am I then?”

Alfie looked at the bruises.

The grass stains.

The crooked helmet.

The enormous grin.

The exhausted parents.

The equally exhausted friend.

And the two slightly battered bikes.

“You,” said Alfie, “are someone who didn’t give up.”

For a moment Barry was quiet.

Then he nodded.

“That sounds pretty good.”

“It is pretty good.”

The walk home felt different.

The bikes no longer seemed mysterious.

They seemed like friends.

Slightly dangerous friends.

But friends.

As they rounded the corner near their houses, Bubble suddenly emerged from a hedge.

The cat stared at the group.

Then at the bikes.

Then at the group again.

Nobody knew exactly what Bubble was thinking.

But if cats could roll their eyes, he certainly did.

Perhaps he was wondering why it had taken humans five hours to learn something.

The boys waved goodbye.

Marmaduke headed home with Marjory.

Barry headed inside with his family.

The parents were exhausted (chronic spinal injuries exacerbated).

Alfie was exhausted.

Barry was exhausted.

Yet somehow Barry still had one final question.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can we go again tomorrow?”

“Yes, maybe or tomorrow but very soon. You still have to practice,” said Mr Brand.

“Absolutely.”

Because despite the crashes, the bruises, the wobbling and the endless running behind tiny bicycles…

there was nothing quite like watching two determined four-year-olds discover they could do something they never thought possible.

Even if they did hit a few daisies along the way.

And perhaps a bin.