Author : Beck Dacus

Today was the day. I had gotten the bike the day before, and rented the Snap gear even before that. I pulled into the driveway, pulled them both out of the back, and called my son, Cameron, outside.
Watching him come outside and look at the bike with wonder brought back a flood of memories from when I learned how to ride a bike: the trial and error, the frustration, and the perseverance that my parents forced upon me that kept me going. And that moment when I finally figured it out– knowledge gained that I never lost. But it would happen very differently to Cameron.
“Get on the bike, Cameron, and I’ll set up the Snap… there,” I said with satisfaction. He straddled the seat, put one foot on a pedal with the other on the ground, and said, “Okay, turn it on.” I flipped the switch on the side, and Cameron’s eyes visibly widened. My wife came out to watch, and I stood beside her while Cameron learned.
After a few seconds, Cameron focused on the sidewalk ahead of him, pushed off the pavement… and rode.
“Whoo! Go, Cam!” My wife yelled. He was now riding up and down the street, a look of glee stuck on his face. He had taken off the Snap gear, and had donned his helmet as the gear told him.
“So much has changed since we were little,” she said to me.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to decide if it had done so for better or worse.

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