You Can Let Go Now - Memoir (and)

We march like soldiers off to battle towards the bike path of the Blue Park. Actually it’s Riverside County Park. “The Blue Park,” Dylan had dubbed it one day from his car seat as we drove past, and it stuck. Since he was six months old we’d go there most mornings in the spring, summer, fall and winter (if it wasn’t too cold or snowy). As soon as he was able to walk, Dylan played on its jungle gym, which was painted blue and red and yellow, but mostly a rich royal blue. That’s where he learned to climb steps, slide down a slide, hang on monkey bars and swing on swings. I was always nearby to catch him if he fell. Kids don’t know enough to be scared of falling because they don’t think they’ll ever fall until they actually do and even if they do fall, they just get right back up and keep playing. I wish I could be that way again; but when you’re worried about somebody else, things change. Boy, do they change.

It’s spring on the cusp of summer now. Dylan’s seventh. We’re wearing shorts under a sunny, clear blue sky decorated with cottony puffs of clouds. You couldn’t ask for a better Friday. You couldn’t have asked for a better week. The Blue Park is bright green and smells of summer. It’s Dylan’s spring break and he’s staying with Dad for a week of fun. But Dylan’s all business now. He wears his black bike helmet with yellow trim and marches on the left side of his bike, pushing it by the handlebars. A yellow bike with black trim, Top Gun is printed vertically in bold letters on the pipe that connects the handlebars to the front wheel. I bought it with training wheels last year for Dylan’s sixth birthday, but it’s a two-wheeler now. We removed the training wheels two days ago, right after Dylan had come up to me.

“Dad,” he said in a trembling voice. “I want to learn how to ride a two-wheeler.”

“Okay,” I answered. “What’s the matter?”

“Connor and all my friends ride their two-wheelers,” he replied, as he started to cry a little. “I can’t.”

“Then you’ll learn, Big Guy,” I assured. “I’ll teach you.”

“Okay.” Dyl’s voice still trembled but he sniffled and wiped away his tears.

After breakfast, we got started. I moved alongside him on his left, my right hand on the back of his bike seat, my left on the handlebar until he was able to balance himself. We practiced the next day, too, and though Dyl fell more than he rode upright, he got right back on and his balance got better each time. So this morning it wasn’t a surprise when Dylan announced he was ready to ride his two-wheeler by himself.

I thought he’d be nervous, but he doesn’t look it. He looks determined pushing his bike to the path. It’s then I realize that I’m the nervous one because ridiculous What Ifs flood my head like a hit parade of bad top forty songs. What If he falls off the bike and cracks his skull through the helmet? What If he hits a bump and stabs his eye on a handlebar all the way to the back of his brain? What If a stranger dressed in black snatches him off his bike and steals him? To stop the What Ifs, I give Dylan some annoying fatherly advice just like my Dad gave me. “Go slow at first. I’ll be right next to you.”

“Okay,” Dylan answers.

“Just like we practiced except when you get your balance, give me the word to let go.”

“Okay,” Dylan nods.

“Okay?” I ask.

“I said okay, Dad.”

“Okay.”

We stop at the beginning of the bike path.

Dylan leans the bike against his torso and tightens the straps of his helmet. He looks like a miniature pro racer getting ready for the big race. He looks cool.

I offer yet more annoying fatherly advice. “Not too tight. Snug.”

“I know, Dad.” Dylan re-takes hold of his handlebars. He looks at the path that lay ahead of him.

I look at it, too. It stretches through the park forever into all eternity (Amen) when it’s no more than half a mile. What If pigeons fly into his face—blinding him!—and he veers into an oncoming tractor-trailer. I shake my head clear. “Ready?” I ask Dylan.

“Ready,” he answers.

I grip the left handlebar with my left hand. Dylan puts his left foot on the left pedal and swings his right leg over the seat till his foot sets on the right pedal. I take hold of the back of the bike’s seat with my right hand. Dylan’s upright on the bike and begins to pump his legs. He’s pedaling, slow at first, moving forward, I’m walking alongside. Little-by-little, we pick up speed. Though I’m a mite scared, I’m excited, too. I wonder if this was how the Wright brothers felt as they got the first airplane off the ground.

“You okay, Dyl?” I ask, still keeping up.

Dylan pedals faster.

I break into a trot, but the left handlebar moves out of my grasp. I break into a slight run, reaching for the handlebar, my right hand still on the back of the bike’s seat. I’m not used to running this fast anymore yet somehow I keep up though I can’t get hold of that left handlebar again. “I still got you, Dyl!” I exclaim. “I won’t let you fall!”

“You can let go now, Dad!” Dylan declares, as he pumps his legs faster still. “I don’t need you anymorrrrrrre!” Dylan zooms away, beyond my reach, twenty yards in the blink of an eye; it looks like he’s flying. But suddenly, the bike wobbles. It looks like he’ll crash.

Panic surges through me like electricity. I break into a sprint to catch him but before I get there Dyl pulls up on the handlebars, keeps pumping his legs, brings the bike upright and zooms off again.

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