A kid's bike is the first step to freedom - and the Future

"Hey mister!" said the kid. He stopped his bike and waved for my attention. "Hey mister." I paused, which annoyed the dog: There are scents ahead. New scents. Not that you'd know. "You write for the newspaper, right?"

I had to stop, of course; the very existence of someone under the age of 27 who understands the syllables "newspaper" is a remarkable phenomenon, and must be explored. "You should write about me. About me and my bike."

In the old days, a big-city newspaperman would adjust his fedora, flick the cigar into the gutter and tell the kid to call his gal, and move along to the Stork Club where the busboy gives you the square jolt on all the celebs.

But those days are gone. Now, you listen.

"I put cards on the spokes," he said. "It sounds like a motorcycle. You should write about that."

I said I would. So here we are. I promised.

When he drove away I recognized the sound, of course; playing cards, clothespins, instant imaginary engine. This probably wasn't his first bike, but it was the best bike ever NOW.

We all remember that bike. It had streamers, perhaps; a banana seat and chopper handlebars, if you grew up in the late '60s. Or it was a metal-flake gold-paint Schwinn with built-in headlights, heavy as something Patton drove.

Or it was a 10-speed made of miracle metal, light as a mini-donut, with pedals that went backwards and a derailleur that trilled a graceful tune as it shifted the chain.

If you're over 30, perhaps you remember riding down hills no-handed, without a helmet. Summer's the best time for feeling immortal and indestructible, no?

This week the Minneapolis police gave away brand-new bikes to kids who wore helmets previously passed out by the gendarmes, a way of telling tykes that brain-buckets are your first line of defense against having Mom pick gravel from your scalp with a tweezers and daubing the wound with the Dreaded Mercurochrome.

Curmudgeons note that they didn't grow up wearing helmets, and they got along fine, aside from the head-injury that made it impossible to blink without jerking a leg, but you get used to it. Nanny state!

Perhaps. But.

As he pedaled off down the hill I recalled teaching my own child how to ride a bike. Session 1: D-Day Level trepidation, based on fear of hills. Having grown up in North Dakota, we had no such worries, but here in hilly SW Minneapolis the ground can fall away at any moment, so we chose a parking lot. Took two short lessons.

No parent can teach a child to ride a bike without being overwhelmed with the accursed metaphorical nature of it all: You hold them as they practice, then take your hands off as they gain skill. You trotting alongside, ready to intercede should gravity make a play for your fragile little egg. Watch the turns. Don't overcompensate. Keep your speed up. The skill is soon mastered, and she's riding by herself. You stay there. She rides away, makes the turn, comes back.

"You know what this is?" I said, patting the frame. "Freedom."

She rolled her eyes. From what?

Oh, it'll come to you. And it'll take you away. The moment I saw her pedal away I foresaw the nights I'd worry when she was late pedaling back to the house, after a glorious twilight tour of the world we want her to explore. The bike became the car; the car became college; college became the Future, where there aren't helmet laws and you're not leaning up against the car in the parking lot, thinking, well, worst-case scenario, I have Band-Aids in the glovebox.

But there isn't an alternative. You teach them to ride; you teach them to go. You hope they wear a helmet and brake when the sign says stop.

"Write about me!" the kid said. "My name is Adam." Here you go, then. Put this in your scrapbook. When you pull it out in 10 or 20 years, do me a favor.

Call your folks.

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858

More daily at www.startribune.com/buzz.