When she learned to ride a bicycle, she was only four or five years-old. The bike was red, silver, and had been a boy's bike before being converted into a gleaming, mean machine, just for her.
When her father brought the bike home, a surprise, she giggled with delight each time the bike tipped from side to side, the training wheels bolstering her up, keeping her aligned and moving forward. Training wheels taught her to ride.
She didn't keep them on the shiny red bike for long.
Soon, she rode her bicycle everywhere, without the third and fourth wheel.
She never forgot the help though, the feeling of security, balance, and soft push back up each time things threatened to fall. She tried to apply this sense of reassurance in all facets of her life.
Who wouldn't appreciate training wheels? she thought.
Who doesn't want that uncensored, cushioned balance that comes from loving reassurance?
Only those who ride bikes at age four or five love training wheels.
They are meant to be outgrown, out-loved, outlived.
She learned.
When the fourth man left and fell in love with another, the training abruptly -
Stopped.
