This is the first draft of a memoir piece I am writing as a member of my Year 6 writing community.
I thought I’d be going over to the park after lunch. You know: the climbing frame, the roundabout, just hanging with whoever was around. And then he asked me. My dad asked me if I wanted to go over to the park and ride my bike – with him! I felt so special that he wanted to spend time just with me. Other children would see me with my dad, they would know that he loved me. They would know that I had a dad.
I found my trainers in the garden and met him by the front door. By the bikes. Three bikes fighting for space in the corridor, their handlebars had shredded the wallpaper over the years. The warm feeling in my chest vanished, instantly replaced with creeping dread. I tried not to scrape the radiator as I clumsily wrestled my bike from beneath the pile. I chatted nervously as I wheeled the bike along the pavement, unable to enjoy a single moment of one of the few conversations I ever had with my dad. We’d be at the park soon and he would find out that the bike my mum had bought for my birthday years before was a white elephant.
As we waited for the lights to change, I scrambled together a plan. I reckoned I could manage to cycle for a few seconds along the short, flat bit at the bottom of the park. I felt calmer. The sun on my face felt good. Walking with my dad felt so good, I almost forgot about the bike. He was interested in what I was learning at school, so I told him about the end of year performance. However, he wanted to know about the actual lessons which I was finding hard to remember; it had been the summer forever. To be honest, this was the first time I’d thought about school in weeks. I wondered when we’d be going shopping for my new uniform, mum hadn’t mentioned it.
The panic began to rise in my chest as my dad held open the gate to the park for me, before beginning to stride up the steep path at the edge of the green. I trotted to keep up with him, struggling to keep control of the blasted bike. It swayed onto the crunchy August grass, making it harder to steer. Who knew?! We passed the climbing frame and the roundabout in a blur. There was no way back.
He continued purposefully and, for a moment, I thought we were going to walk straight through the park. The gate at the top was seconds away now. If I didn’t have the bike holding me back, I reckon I could have been out on the pavement in seconds. Freedom! My dad hadn’t questioned me walking my bike to the park after all. Perhaps I’d made myself feel utterly sick for nothing.
“Shall we start here?” he had asked. He had had to ask more than once. In fact, I had barely registered a single word he had said since we entered the park. My head had been a mess, trying and failing to problem solve, and for the last few moments I’d felt elation as I dared to believe I had got away with it! Now, as he repeated the question I knew there was nowhere to hide. I dropped my sweaty house key into his huge, dry palm.
I swung my leg over the back wheel, the way I’d seen my brothers do it a thousand times before. It was a great relief to learn I hadn’t outgrown the bike, sitting on the saddle my tiptoes barely touched the dry grass. I lifted my right foot cautiously onto the pedal and took a deep breath. Gripping the unfamiliar handlebars, at the very top of the hill, as if my life depended on it, I dared to place my other foot on the pedal. The bike rolled down the grassy bank, taking me – the unwilling passenger – along for the ride.
What a ride! I felt the breeze on my face for the first time on this blisteringly hot afternoon. The seconds stretched out painfully as I felt as if I was flying. I was! Unfortunately, my bike and I had parted company and it careered down the hill without me. I skidded after it, burning my thigh on the scorched grass in the process. I didn’t know that at the time, though. I was overcome with shame and tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to look as my dad retrieved the bike from the hedge it had landed in.
He wheeled it towards me as my mind raced. I didn’t know what to say but I knew I couldn’t get back on that dangerous bike again today. I was certain that’s what my dad would want me to do. “Let’s go home,” he had said instead, towering over me and holding out his hand. He didn’t sound surprised or angry or concerned, as he wheeled the bike the rest of the way down the hill. I wasn’t sure how to feel either but for the first time ever I was desperate to learn how ride that bike. Even if it killed me.
