BunceMan's TranzAmerican Bike Ride

As a young boy, I looked to my parents to learn new skills.

"My shoe is untied," I said to my mother in the parking lot leaving church one Sunday. "I guess you'll have to tie it," she replied without stopping.

She had shown me how, but my mother was so much better at it. As she opened the car door, I began to panic, fearing I would be left behind. I looked at my untied shoe, then at the closing car door, and bent down to the task.

The knot was loose, but the process was correct. I ran up to the rolled down window of our car and exclaimed, "I did it! I tied my shoe!"

"Nicely done, little man," my mother said. "Now get in the car and let's go home."

My father's skill-teaching techniques did not last long. At a local pool, I watched the other kids jumping and diving in the deep end of the pool. They were having a lot of fun and I wanted to join in. But, alas, I "could not" swim. My father was sitting along the side of the pool reading a newspaper.

"I'll ask my father to teach me to swim," I thought.

He did not respond right away. I persisted, however, until he emerged from behind his newspaper with his own look of determination. "Okay," he said emphatically, "I'll teach you how to swim."

My father set his paper down, got up from his chair, walked up and picked up my small body and cradled me in his arms, then stood on the edge of the deep end of the pool. He looked at me briefly and said, "Swim," and tossed my flailing little body into the pool.

I swallowed lots of water as I frantically moved and kicked my arms and legs. It worked. I was keeping my head above water and wasn't drowning. Took a while, but I splashed my way to side, scrambled up onto the side of the pool and felt quite proud of myself. I ran up to my father, spraying water everywhere, and exclaimed, "I can swim!" Once again, my father emerged from behind his newspaper and said, "Want me to teach you again?"

My father also taught me how to ride a bicycle. I had a tricycle, but wanted to ride a bicycle, like a friend down the street had. "Teach me how to ride a two-wheeler," I said to my father, who was reading his newspaper on the front porch. "Okay," he said finally. Setting his paper down, he walked out into the street with me and my friend's bike. He held the seat and the handlebars while I climbed on.

We lived near the top of a dead-end, down-hill street.

"Ready," my father said. "Ready," I replied.

And with a mighty shove, I was propelled, wobbling and zigzagging erratically, down to end of the street, until I hit the curb and somersaulted over the handlebars onto the lawn beyond. I hurt a bit, but I had learned the concept of two wheels. I looked up the street and my father was standing there with his hands on his hips.

"Want me to teach you again?" he yelled.

I not only learned to ride a bicycle, but how to put on the brakes. And about 45 years later, I'm going to ride a two-wheeler across North America...