The Bicycle Effect

Image by @guillaumedegermain from Unsplash

Bruises. Falls. Scraped knees and crashing into whatever happened to be in the way.

If that sounds familiar, it should. That is what learning to ride a bicycle looks like for most of us. It is a milestone, this graduation from the tricycle, which in many ways gave us a kind of stability and quiet confidence. We thought we could cycle anything. That is, until the bicycle came along.

I have blurry fragments of my first attempt. My parents were the ones who encouraged the transition. I remember standing before that two-wheeled thing thinking it did not look stable at all on its own. My first step onto the pedal was nerve-wracking. The moment one foot pushed down and the bicycle lurched forward, my instinct was to plant the other foot firmly on the ground. It felt safe. But safe was not going to take me anywhere.

My parents held the seat and the front of the bicycle, letting me know I was not alone in those first wobbling moments. They guided me, steady and patient, until something shifted. Until I began to find the rhythm. And then, quietly, they let go.

Learning to move forward was one thing. Learning to stop safely was another. With both feet on the pedals, balance and concentration became everything. You keep your eyes fixed on what lies ahead. You try not to veer off course or clip someone along the way. And yes, there are falls. That is part of it.

Eventually, I did not need anyone holding the seat. I rode on my own.

Years later, at the beach with friends, I found myself doing exactly what my parents had once done for me. A friend had never learnt to ride. Without thinking much about it, I held the seat, steadied the front, and let go when she found her momentum. She picked it up. She was so proud of herself.

There is something quietly profound in that passing-on.

Many things in life mirror the bicycle. The first step is exciting and terrifying all at once. You feel safest standing still, both feet on the ground. But stillness does not take you forward. Balance does not arrive before movement. It arrives because of it. Little recalibrations, small adjustments, learning when to push harder and when to ease off. After a while, you stop thinking about the balance. You simply ride.

So here is the question worth sitting with this Monday: what are you waiting to be steady before you begin?

We cannot hold out for perfect conditions. They rarely come. In my book If Humans Were Spaghetti, I write about how we are all, at some point, going to need to get into the boiling water. The water is not there to break us. It is there to refine us.

You do not find your balance standing still. You find it by moving.