I learned to ride a bike in my early teens. But after moving to the United States in my 20s, I stopped riding altogether, and my skills grew rusty.
A few years ago, while visiting China, I thought I still had it in me. My sister and I went out for a ride, but when I saw other cyclists approaching, I panicked. My reflexes froze, and all I could do was topple over—twice. The falls hurt not just physically but mentally. I felt defeated and gave up cycling completely after that.
Earlier this month, during a stay at my son’s place, he encouraged me to try again. He rented a bike and insisted I practice. At first, I resisted with every excuse I could find. “I can ride,” I told him. “I just fall when there are people around because I get nervous and don’t know how to react.”
But he didn’t buy it. “You just need more practice,” he said, “and you need to overcome the fear left over from before.”
At first, my hands clutched the handlebars so tightly they ached. He told me to also keep my hands on the brake, but I couldn’t manage both at once. Slowly, with his encouragement, I began to relax. My grip loosened; my balance and confidence returned. He jogged alongside me the whole time, cheering me on, patiently.
By the end, I could ride again—not perfectly, but with less fear and more confidence. Thank you for being so patient and for never giving up on me.
Watching his patience and kindness that day, I can see that he will one day make a wonderful father to his children and a great teacher to his students, should he choose that path.