Training Wheels
When a primary school bike rodeo feels like the proverbial saber-tooth tiger
Penned May 21, 2025 by Penny Sue Denim
A year ago, I got taken down by a jar of pickles. Standing in the kitchen, hand cushioned by the silicone gripper, I still couldn’t do it. Entering the space a couple minutes later, my emaciated husband found me in tears still twisting away at the jar.
This morning it’s a primary school bike rodeo taking me down. I asked for the help I needed a week or two ago. Wren’s bike is now in tip-top shape. I even took her out for practice a couple times over the weekend. I was hopeful that with the training wheels set to the more advanced level, she might rock that rodeo.
Two summers passed her by while her daddy first, battled starvation, and second, died. She’s not exactly the most advanced bike rider.
Yesterday I picked her up a bike lock at the dollar store. We’re all set, I thought, exhaling.
This morning, as usual, we’re running late, and she’s told me she needs her training wheels set back to the beginner level. Sliding two pieces of bread into the toaster, I take a deep steadying breath. I mentally rehearse myself twisting the Phillips screwdriver for the win, first on one side of the bike, and then the other.
Probably going to be late for school—again—but I GOT THIS.
Crouching down next to the bike in the garage, it suddenly dawns on me that this is not a job I can complete effortlessly, even with Phillip’s help. Nope, those are bolts and there’s very little play between their edges and the bracket.
Heart racing, I bring that little bike into the house, situating it on the kitchen floor. The breakfast and lunch-prep clutter suddenly looks like base camp, and there’s a mountain range, stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction, my own shower and tooth-brushing being one of the nearby low-elevation peaks.
The tears start to flow, not helping in any way with the clarity I need to decide which tool to use to traverse this first peak. There’s a power tool that looks a bit like a gun. But its biggest attachment is too small for these bolts. Panicked, I can’t seem to find a wrench, but there is a set of pliers. Watching me try to turn the bolt through eyes blurred with tears, our current handiest family member—the eight-year-old—tells me she thinks there’s a wrench in her toolbox in her room. She returns with that wrench but to no avail. These bolts aren’t budging for me.
I mentally begin to reschedule my morning, deciding which activities to cut away to make space—first, for the help I need with addressing this task; second, for duplicate trips to the school, depositing my tardy child and returning later with the bike; and third, to buffer the emotional weight of it all. Who knows how long these tears will flow and what other sorrows and disappointments will be caught up in the flash flood.
I feel so fragile. The simplest of circumstances can derail my entire day. I miss the steady strength I (we) once had and my ability to ably and predictably schedule a full day without batting an eyelash, except at my husband as he sits next to his daughter’s bike, installing the training wheels without breaking eye contact.
~ ps denim
Editors note: Some images in this article were created with AI; However, the writing never is.
The eye contact is what nearly broke me at the end.
This poignant story reminded me of of an elderly widow in our retirement community who was broken briefly by the trouble she had assembling her 8’ Christmas tree. She said, “There’s no one here! And he’s not coming back. . . .” I helped her with the tree, and yet she was the one who intuited how to put it together and did so.