A Happy Father’s Day Reflection … On Wheels
by Sherman Lee

One of my favorite childhood memories is my dad teaching me to ride a two-wheeler.  It’s a seminal moment in any parent-child relationship — the child climbs another rung on the ladder toward independence. I don’t recall my first solid food nor my first steps, but I darn well remember that day, riding without training wheels, even more than when I started driving.

It was a warm day, or at least I recall wearing short sleeves. After having mastered accelerating and stopping with training wheels, I clearly recall Dad’s magical wrench finally removing the training wheels. Nervously, I mounted the bicycle while Dad held the rear handle of black banana seat of my bright orange three-speeder. It took a couple of tries to find my balance, with Dad serving as the training wheels. We went up the block and back  — my dad’s gyroscopic hand kept me safe.

As we went up the block again, the speed impressed me, especially because Dad was keeping up — until I turned around and realized that he wasn’t there. Shock and awe, excitement and fear — my first baby steps into pre-adolescence.

Although he remembered the event, my dad didn’t recall much of the detail. I considered that odd for the longest time — something so vibrant to me was not so much to him. However, today I realized I also can’t recall many details when Amy and Noah first biked solo. Memory can be cruelly selective.

Today, I took Amy for more DWUP — driving while under permit. After a few evening lessons in the nearby industrial park, we took the next step — driving on major roads. We were to end the day’s challenges by parking at Target. It’s a task that taxes even the most experienced drivers.

As we rounded the road toward the left turn into Target, she went too fast and missed the lane. Her reaction was prudent. She kept going straight to hang a left and circle back to the parking lot.  

Ordinarily, that would be a good plan. However, the lanes were all garbled because of the Dept. of Transportation and the two-year highway shutdown/renovation. We were blocked out of the one straight lane. Amy was slowing down when we both realized we were locked into the right-turn entrance onto the interstate.

“What do I do, Dad?” is what I heard, as my eyes darted in all directions. “You have to take the turn and speed up...we’ll be okay, just listen to me...”

“Oh my God! Are we on the highway?”

“Just listen to me and we’ll be okay.” And onto the interstate we went.

“Dad, we could go to church!” We could, I thought, since we were more than halfway there.

“No,” I replied.  “We’re getting off at the next exit.”

“Are we on the highway?”

“You’re doing well — just slow down and make a right turn.”

We turned right onto a major road, the one that runs closest to our house.

“Yes, we were on a highway.”

“I did really well, didn’t I?”

“You did adequately.”

We pulled into our driveway (which seemed old hat by now) and turned off the ignition.

The adrenaline kept pumping, but through our words instead of our actions.

“I did do really well, right?”

“Well, you handled the unexpected well, listened closely and didn't panic. You did adequately.”

“How did I not do well?”

“You did those things well, but should we have been there in the first place?”

“Ohhh…”

I wrote in my journal, “Today, we ran errands again and this time you made the turns, all in good time. Last weekend we even drove on the interstate several times, intentionally — all without incident. You are doing well and will be a good driver by your sixteenth birthday. I wonder how much of this you will remember without this memoir. I don’t recall anything about my driving lessons from my dad, but I’m sure he remembers more than I.”     Memory can be cruelly selective.

“And just tonight, dear Amy, when you agreed to go with Mom and me to the pool, you ended up driving us there. You were reading a book while we swam, and then drove us home. It was a classic role reversal of what we’ve done for you until now, and a foreshadowing of what you’ll need to do for us when we enter our dotage. But wait — it’s too early for that! We’ll need to help my parents long before you do so for us.”