I pressed ‘play’ on “Out of the Woods,” the perfect calorie-burning, cardio-exercise song as far as I’m concerned. I pedaled the rented bicycle, anticipating the rhythm, rhyme and repetition that infuses the song laden with meaning. I rode between the bushes of Hibiscus with neatly-trimmed edges and the fence that separated me from the rippling bay. So far, biking-day-1 has been going well.

The gentle breeze brushed within the tips of my hair as I soon picked up speed, imagining myself cycling out of the woods. Yet the woods were more than just lush trees. They were full-grown saplings of work and pressure that shaded over my life.

“Are we out of the woods yet?” My earphones sang.

“Are we in the clear yet?” It asked again.

It then all happened very quickly. A bush. I made a wrong turn. The bike braked too soon. Perhaps the song distracted my monotasking brain. Before I knew it, I was kneeling down on the concrete, gasping at the deep scar in my palm and the pale white streaks that appeared where the twigs recklessly scratched me. No pity for my poor, bruised left leg.

I sat in the cold-hearted silence, prodding at the turquoise patch. I thought back to the day I learned how to ride a bike.

I still remember to this day, my grandfather’s determination to take away the training wheels from my very first bike. It instilled mixed feelings in my heart: a part of me wanted to mature and face my fears, but another part of me wanted to hide from all dangers and live comfortably under the nurturing and protection of childhood. Yet, because he insisted on me doing so, I would spend afternoons attempting to ride without the training wheels I have depended on desperately. Losing my balance, I would often end up bumping into a bench or colliding with the grass. I would spot the tiny smile on his face. Was he laughing at my failures?

“Can’t I just ride with those wheels on?” My fear for failing again grew along with my voice.
            “No, of course not! You’ve gotta take them away at some point in your life. Can’t depend on them forever.” His voice grew to the size of mines. I could tell that he too was frustrated.
            After a few brisk moments of an awkward staring-contest, he said calmy, “Let’s try this again.”

“Merciless,” I would think, “No pity for my poor soul. Or my brand-new bike. Or my sour arms. I’m positive I’ve broken a few bones already.”

That feeling then faded away the one time when I rode with ease and braked at my own will while keeping my balance.

Sitting silently on the concrete floor, I thought about why it is that he made me try again and again knowing that I fell every time. I am used to doing things I can succeed at doing with ease – something I can master without having to try. Perhaps, cycling just isn’t my thing.

That night, after dinner, I asked him: “Why did you make me take away the training wheels so early? Why not wait a few more months, or even another year? You knew it hurt when I fell every time.”

He cracked a smile.

“Because you need to learn to persist. Not everything goes your way.”
            He took a sip off his cup of tea, then continued, “and, well, the earlier you learn that, the better. Look at how good you are at it now!”

“Good? I’m not good at cycling. I fell this morning off my bike. I still cannot forgive those idiotic twigs for clenching their claws onto my leg. When I was learning how to, you know, ride an actual bike, why were you smiling each time I fell?”

“Oh goodness, I wonder how you noticed that. What made you want to ask me this all of a sudden?” He stared at me with those wrinkled, aged, curious eyes and I stared back at the bottomless pit of an iris. Before I even had the chance to mutter a response, he said, “You see, I was content with every fall you had, knowing that you are one step closer to success. I do know that it hurt. A lot. And I do apologize for that. But you’ve gotta learn to live with the pain: the time you succeeded, your arm was still bruised, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but…”

“But you forgot about it since you were overwhelmed with glee!”

My prepared speech that included lying about being incredibly eager to spend the next day doing chores and walking the dog rather than cycling was waisted, but for a good reason. Instead, I spent the next day, and the one after that, riding my bike on the same old path.

I kept in mind of why I had to take away those training wheels. Although the bruise from that fall was still on my leg, I felt as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders knowing that I have to push myself to continue riding, something I learned from scars, talks, and years of my childhood. I have to ride myself out of the woods because I should not and I cannot depend on the “training wheels” in life forever. This lesson became deeply imprinted into my heart.

Life is like a bicycle. To keep one’s balance, they must keep moving. Despite the various stumbling blocks that always seem to find their way toward me, I learned to stick to my daily routines and live with those constraints.

I continued to live along the piles of work, the mountains of pressure, and the bottled-up repressed fear for what fate had in store for me tomorrow.

I continued to ride. With the pain.