"Grab your things I've come to take you home"

Dad,
Remember my green and white bike with the training wheels? You took those wheels off, raised the seat of that bike and decided it was time for me to learn. I think I must've protested. I was a hesitant kid, wasn't I? But we must've agreed at some point that it was, in fact time, for me to shed those worn out white plastic wheels that steadied my beloved little bike.

We walked up the driveway and into the street in front of our house. I mounted the bike with your firm grip on the back of my seat. You told me to pedal and ran with me down the street in front of our house. Your grip kept me from wobbling wildly for the first couple of runs. Patience.  You have more patience than anyone I know.  You reassured me you were still behind me, running to keep up while I pedalled on until suddenly, through my hesitance, you released your hold on my seat and called after me,

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

And I did, I pedalled valiantly until I abruptly collided with Mr. Ed's mailbox. Or was it ours? Some details escape me. I don't remember if I cried. Probably. I'm smiling at the memory. You probably laughed a little, I'm sure it was a pretty hysterical sight. You laugh inappropriately sometimes, like when you're nervous. Miranda does too and now we three share the habit.

I was a tangled wreck underneath the mailbox. You picked me up to my feet, reassured me that that was probably the last time I'd fall if I remembered to brake. I guess it was a lot to remember to steer, brake, and pedal all at once.

I can't recall if we lowered the seat to make me feel more at ease? I feel like you always seemed to raise my seat a little higher than I was comfortable with. Assuring me that the height was fine, where it needed to be. I remember whining that it was just a little too elevated for my comfort. I liked my feet flat on the ground and you explained the the proper riding stance was to be on your tip toes.

Is that a metaphor? Always raising the bar? Expectations? Urging me to stand on my toes, getting me away from my comfort zone?

Your hands that push to pedal on my own, the one on the back of my seat that steadies, and same that reach to pull me to my feet and into your arms.

Where would I be without you?

I love you, Bud.