Get Up and Try Again

Note: this is based on an incident with my own father, a man who went out of his way to tell me that I was worthless and would never amount to anything, and who made it difficult for me to trust anyone. I was taught to ride a bike in one of the most uncomfortable manners possible:

He loved his father. They were in the blue Plymouth that they had worked on together that afternoon. The red and white bicycle was in the trunk. He was allowed to sit in the front seat.

He knew the park they were going to later that day. His father had said that he bought the bike for him so he had to learn how to ride it everywhere over everything. They were going to see how well he could ride after a week with the bike.

It was a nice bike. There was a white metal plate protector over the chain so that he would not get grease on his socks or legs. And he could still smell how new it was. He had already taken it out to show to his friends at the nearby parking lot and on the front sidewalk. The tires were now clean and he made sure that he kept it out of the oily patches on the floor of the garage. When his father brought it home, he was told that he was responsible for everything and everything to do with it. He then wiped down the bars and seat with a cloth from his mother’s cleaning supplies. When they put it into the trunk, he checked to see if there was anything in there that could scratch or stain the frame or seat. His father took out a cooler and the inner hub of a tire to make space for the bike, and then they found an old blanket to cover the floor of the trunk. He knew that nothing could touch his bike.

His mother knew where his father was taking him. She had seen her son with the bike on the street with his friends and counted the number of times he had tried to balance on it and had fallen and injured himself. Usually, he was holding the bike by his side and rolling it along its wheels so that his friends could see it. He even let one of the girls next door ride it and when she fell, he caught her. He was covered in scratches and grit when she fell on him. What her husband was thinking by taking him to the park she did not want to guess. She only kissed her son on the forehead and told him to be careful. Her husband was getting dressed.

It was a strange sort of excitement he felt knowing that he would have the chance to ride his bike for his father. It was late spring; in the summer there would be several festivals that centered on the green band shell he could see from the entrance. Last year, and every year he could remember, they had their tent ready for just one main festival at the beginning of July. He would often help set up the tables by bringing in bags of ice, large plastic tubs, bottles of punch and ginger beer, metal trays for heating up the different spicy food, plastic utensils, paper plates and napkins, and the board that would be set up at the front of the tent with the menu. His father made him write out the prices instead of running around “like a noise”. He did not mind that expression. It sounded like something cool.

It was warmer by the time they pulled into the unpaved parking lot. Many cars were already in the area around the main gate, so they moved into an area that was full of gravel, yellowed dirt and deep grooves left by cars and trucks which had struggled with mud on the last few rainy days. They both bounced in the car as his father struggled over a deep crater that was now hard and dried out in the heat. His father cursed and then smiled when he looked at his son. They both grinned and found a parking space near one of the lanes heading into the band shell area.

Sunlight danced on the bodies of the other cars and he was blinded for a moment when he opened the passenger door, trying to avoid scratching the van next to them. He felt salt on his lips and sweat spread out on his back. A motorcycle left the lot and passed very close to him and he was pushed against the back bumper. There was the shock of the vehicle he did not see and his own discomfort at the sudden heat from the metal on his legs and back. His father noticed this and cursed again; this time he used language that his son had not heard him use before (mainly anatomical and in reference to the biker’s sisters). His mother’s voice was also in his head now. Had she heard him talk that way before? He felt something cool against him.

There were no other cars moving through the other end of the lot. His father opened the trunk and pulled at the old blanket. He heard his bike scrape against something metal and noticed the fresh slashes of grease on the blanket. There was nothing to say about this; not a thing that he could share with his father.

They both walked to the end of the lot and his father told him to hold on to the handlebars as he looked around. He knew that his dad was worried about him, and that he wondered what was happening to his son. The other one could ride so easily. He was comfortable on the bike and had to just make sure that he did not go this far. He knew his father felt that way because he had heard him talk about his brother. When he talked about his other son, the voice was always muted; always something that his mother would try to shush and plead him to stop saying. He knew why he was here.

He fell the first time, hitting the dirt that had dried out and hardened around them. There was one other family out there and he did look to see their reaction (a pair of legs disappeared behind a car door that closed very quickly). He had to try it again, his dad said. On the second try, his father stepped aside so that the bike could make a turn around the lot and head toward the entrance. He lost his right shoe as he tried to back pedal out of the fall. He felt something sharp and metallic under his left buttock and guessed correctly that it was a soda can that had been tossed and crushed by a car. No one was entering or leaving the lot now, so he could not blame anyone in his mind for tossing out their trash. He leaned the bike against a van and picked up his shoe.

It was while he was retying his shoelaces that he noticed his father’s smile. The sun was low and red-orange against the trees behind their car, but he could see this smile and how he was shaking with some silent laughter. Without saying anything, he rolled the bike back to the lot, wiped down the seat and the handle bars, and rode toward his father. His palms hurt and itched with patches of gravel and redness, but he found that his grip was very good.

For a full minute, he pedaled. Again, he made the same turn past his father and a circuit down to the entrance before trying to return to his father’s car. An angular and unnoticed stone caught his front tire and sent him over the handlebars. The bike was behind him and he coughed on the dust. His knees and elbows were both scratched and felt raw; there was also the taste of blood on his tongue. He stood up, wiped his faced, turned around and walked back to the bike. His father, still leaning on the back of the car, had his head down. There was the same dull laugh and the body shaking with the effort to control it. He looked at his son and, when he could get the words out, told him that they should head home, since “he wasn’t going to do anything with the bike today”.

His face felt warm and he was a little dizzy, but something cleared. He remounted the bike. He pushed hard on the pedals and rode onto the ramp and the lane that led into the park. His father’s rising voice was right behind him but he kept pedaling faster until it did not exist. There were very few people on the lane and he rode for about twenty minutes until he reached a fountain and a path that led to an exit for pedestrians. He stopped and wiped his face, arms and legs with the water and then rode to a nearby field. Here, he stopped by a tree, threw the bike down and sat. The grass was cool in the shade. A couple walked past and asked if he was all right. He smiled and closed his eyes. The sunlight was right on his eyelids and he loved the feeling of its heat on him. He saw bright circles in his head and could not hear a thing.

Thank you for reading!

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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