To this very day, I can’t ride a bike, and the tale of my unsuccessful attempts begins with the innocence of a five-year-old navigating the aisles of Toys R Us. Picture a young me, brimming with excitement, eyes gleaming at the prospect of choosing my very own Barbie bike. The moment I laid hands on the shiny new bike, visions of thrilling adventures and the wind in my hair flooded my imagination.

My eagerness to master the art of cycling led me to turn to my parents as the natural guides in this endeavor. Little did I know that their enthusiasm would take an unexpected turn. Imagine my bewilderment as, instead of patiently teaching me, they couldn’t contain their excitement. First, it was my mom who eagerly hopped onto the bike, effortlessly maneuvering it around the neighborhood, all the while exclaiming, “See, this is how you do it!” and “I haven’t done this in so long!”

As she returned, face beaming with joy, I couldn’t wait  for my turn, eagerly awaiting the joy riding a bike would so clearly give me. However, her demonstration had drained her energy. Out of breath and regretfully exhausted, she admitted defeat, expressing that she was too tired to continue the lesson, and retreated inside the house. The cycle (no pun intended) of attempted bike education repeated when my dad emerged, mirroring my mom’s enthusiastic display as well as the same regretful and exhausted retreat into the house. 

Alas, despite the demonstrations, my dream of riding that beautiful Barbie bike remained unfulfilled. To this day, it sits in the garage, a silent witness to my thwarted attempts at conquering the bicycle. The dust that settles upon it is a reminder of a childhood ambition that, despite the passage of time, remains unattained.