Learning to Ride a Bike

I don’t remember when I learned to ride a bike. I imagine it was when we lived in the flats. We called it such, those tree lined streets of Beverly Hills. We lived there on Camden Drive until the house in the hills was finished. My siblings and I would have preferred to stay there. Floating in the backyard pool and walking to school. The house in the hills showcased the mid-century modern and my father’s unrealized dream of becoming an architect which he disregarded in favor of the medical career his own father encouraged because, “You’ll never make any money as an architect.”

 So the house in the hills was a chance to liberate his creative side. His less anxious, depressed side. I don’t remember ever riding a bike on our hilly Loma Vista Street. Perhaps in the driveway, round and round as we must have pretended to be somewhere else. I must have learned on Camden. I was 7 or 8 when we moved to the hills. The “Hills of Beverly,” not unlike the Clampetts. But there was no granny with wire rimmed glasses. Just the 5 of us and later the dogs, Kimberly and Lady Buffington. I would never name a dog of mine such.

I don’t remember that the kids had any input into the naming. My mother chose the names, female and, at least to her, elegant. Kimberly became Kimmie and Lady Buffington was Buffy. I picture the dogs and bikes with training wheels. But I don’t remember the chronology. The years have multiplied so much since then.

 I don’t remember teaching Nico to ride a bike. It must have been his father who at least visited enough to teach the basics. I still have Nico’s first, red tricycle. In the storage unit on Treasure Island. It is a treasure of his childhood, like the Radio Flyer red wagon I took with us each week to the Farmer’s Market. First in Marin and then to the city markets once we had moved. Perhaps red was his father’s favorite color. He chose the vehicles even if he didn’t choose to live with us. To marry me. To be a full-time father. The wagon and the trike will not vanish, even if I can’t remember all the vehicles of my past.

Bike riding is most associated with the years with Nico’s father. He still rides…everywhere. We rode together in wine country, in Marin, on our weekends. I bought a bike to be included in his world. It was a road bike with purple and yellow detailing. From a shop near Golden Gate Park. I don’t remember at what phase in our relationship, but I am sure it was early enough to showcase a common interest In the hope that our love would multiply and he would disregard whatever doubts eventually led to his leave taking, but not before he loved me enough for Nico.

I do remember riding that bike from my house in the city to the ferry terminal and riding across to Marin, to meet Bruce and go on to his house in Fairfax. Long before Nico. I do remember falling off that bike, as I must have disregarded trolley tracks on my ride through the city to the ferry. But with a helmet and gloves, I don’t remember if there were scars or scrapes. I definitely did not ride my bike to the ferry terminal just days before Nico was born. My huge belly floating above as I would soon and forever be liberated from the everyday.

 Bruce was in Larkspur, or somewhere similar, waiting for me. We had plans to visit with his friends who had just returned from a train trip through Russia. I sat next to a woman whose son, Forrest, cuddled on her lap. I thought Forrest would be a good name for a boy. I don’t remember our tentative list of names, but Forrest was not among them. Bruce said I could choose the name and whether or not the baby should be circumcised. After all, he might not stick around.

 Nico was born and I couldn’t decide among the names. I do remember that circumcision was a definite. Though other Jewish friends had decided not to put their tiny boys through such. Not in a hospital and not at home with a mohel. For me, it wasn’t a question. A tradition, my father, not hiding that my son was Jewish. Years later Nico did wonder about the uncircumcised boys he shared the bathroom with at his Spanish immersion school. I don’t remember that he challenged my decision, he was just curious.

I don’t remember exactly who taught Nico to ride a bike. But I know he rode most freely on the dusty roads and trails of Camp Mather. I did too. Camp liberated both of us. I no longer needed to impress Bruce with my purple and yellow road bike. Nico had friends and their fathers to teach him the finer points of riding and swimming. Jumping off rocks at Carlon Falls. Wading across streams, catching pollywogs, clowning it up at the weekly talent show, though I don’t remember all the details.

I don’t remember if my father thought learning to ride a bike was important. I don’t remember if I ever saw him ride a bike. But my son’s father is an avid rider. Nico rode on campus when he was a college freshman. Up in Olympia, Washington. When drugs and alcohol made riding precarious. After sobriety and sanity prevailed he rode the used bike his father bought him when he lived in Salt Lake City. He had returned to school. Safe and sober. I don’t remember  exactly who taught each of us to ride a bike. But we learned. And we continue to ride.