I must have been seven or eight years old when I rode my first bicycle, and the day I learned to ride my bike is very memorable to me. It was a bright warm afternoon and the perfect summer day; school vacation time, kids playing, sun shining, birds chirping. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the afternoon. The kids in my neighborhood were running around playing fun games. I was in my back yard with my two sisters and my little brother.

We were playing tag when my dad pulled Into he driveway in his pickup truck with a bicycle In the back. I can clearly recall It. My dad must have picked it up at a garage sale. It was an old, rusty bicycle with some yellow and white paint on It that was covered with some of those really cute metallic glittery stickers to cover the paint that was coming off. I didn’t care what the bicycle looked like. I was more excited to do something with my dad. Learning to ride my bike would mean a bond with my dad and a challenge for myself.

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If I learned, I knew It loud make him proud. The feeling of learning to do something for the first time was a bit frightening: especially having my dad as my riding instructor. Something good must have happened that day that I was not aware of, because my dad was in a good mood. Usually my father was very impatient and demanding so it was surprising to have him want to teach me to ride my bike for the first time. I didn’t care to look for reasons. My dad Jumped out of his truck and reached to get the bicycle that.