The day before school started again last week, D and I went out for long, languid bike ride. The weather was perfect, just a hint of cool in the air, and a bright, clear sky with loads of sun. We only had an hour or two, so we headed south through Little Italy to Dow’s Lake, took the route by the Rideau Canal, circled through downtown and headed home.

D mostly rode ahead of me, too tall for his bike, shoulders set, the wind catching in his t-shirt like a sail. I caught myself 5 or 6 times about to call out safety reminders. A little warning about the loose gravel on the path, a reminder of sudden drops and sharp turns.

Instead, I held my tongue. This boy was heading to high school the next day. Whatever I have taught him of bike safety, he already knows it.

Along Queen Elizabeth Drive, I saw two figures ahead of us. A man on a bike, and a small child beside him, riding in perfect unison, side by side. I marveled at their synchronicity. Because our pace was leisurely, it took some time to catch up, to see them in the light of the sun instead of always turning ahead at the next curve in the road.

When we were finally close enough to see them clearly, it all made sense. The man was riding with only one hand on the wheel, the other on the little girl’s shoulder. And now, instead of marveling at them I marveled at him. At his balance. At his self trust. How much maturity, how much confidence, not just physical, but psychic, must you have to continue along, threading forward, only one hand to yourself and the other so clearly guiding?

She didn’t have training wheels, she had him.

My own confidence is still a little shaky since my fall, still focused on the worst case scenario. Despite the glorious whether I couldn’t help but widen sharp turns, avoid curbs, go very slowly.

My son, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He rode easily and silently. Not in a boasting way but just the way a boy might enjoy the open air and the trees and the grass, and the acorns littering the path and the water running alongside.

Every once in a while, a bike would come along behind us and overtake us, and sometimes, they would only overtake me for a bit, before they sped up again and passed him too. And I noticed that this was new.

Strangers had never separated us along the path before. He’d always been so clearly my child, but now, he was taller than I was, and so clearly his own person. They didn’t realize we belonged to each other. And this made me both very happy and very, very sad.

We overtook the man and the little girl as we approached downtown. I looked over as we pedaled by, and for the first time, now that we were at their level, I noticed a baby in a carrier in front of him. He caught my eye and we both smiled.

He couldn’t have known that in that moment, he’d made me consider the possibility of trusting things to go well. The possibility of believing you can ride a bike with one hand on the wheel and the other on your daughter’s shoulder, with your baby in the front. The possibility of the gorgeous day instead of the potential fall. Of beginnings instead of endings.

Let’s chat in the comments:

* How’s the “back to school” fall vibe treating you? Are you caught up in it?

* Are there kids in your life who are suddenly bigger than you can believe?

* How do you manage riding your proverbial bike with one hand while guiding others, or do you?

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