Don’t Let Go

I’m forty. Last Saturday, I got on a bicycle for the first time. When I was a child, we lived on a busy road in Leeds, and my parents said cycling was dangerous. So I never learned.

My daughter Gemma is ten. She took me to her school car park. It was empty.

“I’m holding the seat, Mum,” she said. “Just go.”

The first time, I fell after three metres. The second time, I fell after ten. Gemma laughed, but she helped me up.

The third time, I went all the way across the car park. “Gemma, don’t let go!” I shouted.

No answer. I looked behind me. Gemma was at the other end. She was waving.

I rode the bicycle back to her, by myself.