Around Here

I must have been around five when I got my first regulation two-wheel bicycle, complete with training wheels bolted onto either side, like the out-sized ears into which my own head had not yet grown. I rattled happily around the neighborhood for most of the summer, leaning lazily into those training wheels. But come September, I’d not made enough progress with the two-wheel concept to suit my 10-year-old brother. He’d had enough. Determined, by way of immersion training, to free me from the offensive vestiges, he removed the training wheels. He then made me pedal slowly, wobbily, two-wheeledly down the street, while he ran along side, ready to catch me if I fell. Which I did. More than once. Into him. Finally, in a burst of exasperation as much as inspiration, he ran behind the bike, pushing it forward as hard and fast as he could, and with a final mighty shove sent me sailing down Penrose Avenue at a velocity heretofore beyond my velocipedic experience. And like magic, the blessed sta...