Dirtbag

I learned how to ride a bike when I was fourteen.

Everyone usually learns at the age of six or seven, but not me. Technically, I was given a lesson by my father, but it didn't work out. He dislikes the principle of teaching because he believes everyone should come to him prepared. This is the theory that caused our relationship to fail.

“Jack, my boy,” he had said that very day. It was the day after my sixth birthday. Mom had given me a brand new bike as a present, but dad had to head out early to work. “Are you ready to ride a bike?”

I had heard my mom begging my father to teach me earlier that morning. That was the thing that pissed me off at such a young age: they truly believed I was invisible and unaware. This information didn’t make this milestone as exciting as it was supposed to be. Even at the age of six my father did not fail to disappoint me.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. I was staring at the training wheels. Even though I was fully aware that everyone started out that way, I felt like those two extra wheels were mimicking me.

“Let’s get this show on the road!”

I hopped up on the seat. Gripped onto the handlebars. Stared down the open paved road. It was silent.

“You gotta get goin’, Jack. That’s how this things works.” I knew how it worked and I still do to this day. You try. He critiques. You fail.

I fell down at least fifty times that day. Dad didn't say, “Get up, you can do this.” He shouted so much that his face got all red.

I taught myself when I became fourteen. When I showed the critic, he didn't congratulate me—he told me I was eight years too late.