Leo took a breath, pushed off, and immediately wobbled. He squeezed the brakes so hard the bike jerked to a halt. He felt the familiar sting of frustration. "Again," his dad encouraged.
"You could," his dad said softly. "But you’ve already mastered the small wheels. They aren't helping you anymore; they're just holding you back. Just focus on the first ten feet. That’s all. Baby steps."
Leo wasn't. "Can’t I just keep the small wheels for one more week?"
Every great journey, Leo realized, starts with the courage to be clumsy for those first few inches.
Leo pedaled. He stopped thinking about the "falling" and started feeling the "moving." By the time he reached the mailbox, his father’s hand was no longer on the seat. Leo was gliding. The wind, which had felt like a wall before, was now a cool hand against his face.
Leo stared at the cracked pavement of his driveway, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt far too loud for a quiet Tuesday morning. In his hands, he gripped the handlebars of a bicycle—the training wheels finally gone, leaving two thin strips of rubber between him and the terrifying concept of balance. "Ready?" his father asked, kneeling beside him.
