J Hahn Doleman
Riding the Brakes
I still have the Idaho-shaped scar on my knee from that first wreck. My father didn’t believe in training wheels – just another gimmick to sell you something you don’t need. Instead, he held onto the back of my saddle and ran along beside me as I cycled down the street.
One day it all came together and I found the rhythm. My father released his grip without a word. I was so focused on the blur of hard pavement in front of me that I never noticed him peeling off, getting smaller behind me, and I rode on, balancing alone, for another block. Then I looked over my shoulder.
she says I have issues