My first bike had a yellow banana seat and was formerly my older brother’s bike. Perhaps that’s why one day, when I was five, he told me I was too old for training wheels. He pulled out tools and took the little wheels off my bike. Not paying attention to my fear, he instructed me to hop on. He would hang on to the bike to keep it balanced and run with me. My hands shook, my feet couldn’t get settled on the peddles, I couldn’t talk and, whoosh, he was pushing me down the road. At first, I was wobbly and filled with fear, he shouted encouraging words and stayed with me. I calmed down, my feet worked the peddles, my hands stopped shaking and, then, I realized he wasn’t running with me anymore. I fell over, banged my knee and cried. My brother came back and got me back on the bike. The second time was much easier. I don’t even remember the third