Leaves crunched under my feet. The tall oak trees surrounding our school were alive with color as the blue sky and late afternoon sun filtered through them. The crisp autumn air held the faint scent of burning leaves somewhere in the neighborhood.
I was six years old, and the sheer beauty of the day felt like it was wrapped around me.
We had moved into town a few months earlier. Our house and the school were only a block apart, both along the highway that ran through town.
My friend, Susie, and I had agreed to meet back at school that day. She had received a new bike with training wheels for her birthday, and she told me she would teach me to ride it. But first, we had to go home and ask our mothers if it was okay.
Mom gave me permission, but reminded me to stop, look, and listen before crossing the street—and not to cross the highway under any circumstances.
Susie met me at the school a short time later, and that’s how I learned to ride a bike.
Susie rode it first, showing me what to do.
Soon it was my turn.
At first, I just sat on the bike. Then I slowly started pedaling. It wasn’t quite as easy as it had looked when Susie rode it. The handlebars wobbled, and I felt a flicker of frustration.
But once the wheels began to move and I found the rhythm of it, the wobble settled. By the time we reached the end of the block, I was more proud than frustrated.
Susie kept pace alongside me to the other end of the block. I turned the bike around, and she rode it back while I kept pace with her.
We continued in this way for a while, until the sun got lower in the sky and we knew it was time to go home.
By then, I was pretty sure I wanted a little bike with training wheels of my own.
I crossed the street toward home, the sound of leaves still crunching under my shoes, carrying the whole golden afternoon with me.
Through My Eyes, Gently 