I watch him ride every year, and I watch and cheer for other families and their children just as
they cheer for mine. I watch his peers learn to ride their bikes. I watch others accomplish
what he so desperately wants.

Don’t get me wrong, I am ecstatic for others who have worked hard to learn how to ride a bike,
and I celebrate with their families because I know all too well the emotional rollercoaster of
wanting something so badly for your child, though you cannot accomplish it for them.
However, every year it’s a little more difficult to watch others succeed while watching your own
child struggle, sweat, and sometimes cry, while desperately clinging to the hope of being one of those successful riders too.

I am known as the optimistic one—the one who finds the positive in everything, but that cheering smile is sometimes stiff and masking a mom praying for their child to accomplish a dream that seems ‘so easy’ for all other children but them.

Now, let’s fast forward to this year, Year 3 of Bike First. Benjamin, determined as always, said this was the year. No matter how large the assignment, Benjamin has always persevered to accomplish tasks once he has set his mind to it. He had a clear goal, one that he has wanted for years now—to ride a bike ‘just like everyone else.’

He’s involved in every aspect of Bike First, taking everything seriously—the initial meeting, getting ready for the week, stretching, getting his clothes ready, making sure his bike is loaded in the car, his water bottle and helmet is prepped the night before—no task on the checklist is insignificant when it comes to achieving his goal.

Day 1 starts and he’s nervous: “Momma, what if I can’t do it again this year?” My heart strings tingle, but here comes that masked and excited smile: “You can accomplish anything you desire with hard work and never giving up, I believe in you!” He starts in the gym on the outriggers, just like everyone. Peers leave for the track, and so does he! This is the first year he’s made it out so quickly, what an accomplishment!

Day 2 dawns and he’s nervous again: “Momma, do you think I will be good enough for the track again today?” Calm down momma-heart, he’s looking at you for reassurance: “Of course I do! You made it out to the track on DAY ONE, you will make it out there even sooner today! I believe in you because you never give up and keep trying even when things are hard.” You know what? He made it out to the track after only a couple laps in the gym. More progress made!

Day 3 and I can see the glimmer of confidence mixed with the nerves today: “Momma, I am going to the track today, I hope it’s right away!” We’ve come this far and made a lot of progress: “You’ve got this! I’ll be there watching you on the track!” Look at that, he starts on the track and I see him BALANCING, and STARTING with some help, and STOPPING on his own! I tell my heart not to hope too much. We’ve wanted this just as long as he has, perhaps even longer. We are excited no matter the outcome, whether he learns to ride this year, he already is doing amazing things. Let’s pause here and acknowledge something—hope is a funny thing as a special education parent. It rears its’ head often, but I find that it’s dangerous to let it run wild. The ‘what if’s’ are on constant replay in your brain. Needing to always be the encourager, the warrior, the strong one, rarely is it safe to show your true feelings. You live on guard and ready for action, never too sure what exactly the outcome will be but always praying it is positive for your child. Dare I hope that my child does something like any other peer? Do I set my expectations low or match his? Nevertheless, I push on, the cheerleader, the supporter, saying to myself not to be too hopeful while the whispers of it seep into my heart.

Back to the present, we hit Day 4, Benjamin is up before the alarm and ready to go. Despite his excitement about his progress, he tells me in the car: “Momma, I don’t think I’ll make it off the track this year. I don’t think I will learn to ride without someone helping again this year. But please don’t tell them that.” Oh, the ache that squeezes my heart, be strong, be encouraging: “I hear your words and it sounds like you are concerned about not learning to ride?” I see the nod in the mirror: “It’s more than that.” I pause and think: “Perhaps you are concerned you may disappoint the team helping you if you don’t learn to ride this year?” He nods again and watches out the window. These are the moments I hate as a parent, but I clamp down on my own fears and continue: “I want you to think about the last 3 years of bike camp, what do you notice?” He thinks and acknowledges that he has made the most progress this year. I push again: “Do you think your team is disappointed or do you think that they are just as excited about each and every thing you have accomplished and learned so far this year?” I see the smile pull his lips and the twinkle comes back to his eyes: “I think everyone is happy that I am doing my best because everyone’s’ best is different but just as good.” My heart stutters and my eyes prick, I guess sometimes what I say soaks in—proud mom moment.

We arrive at Bike First and are greeted as always, with encouragement and excitement. His team leader comes out and announces they are going immediately to the track—I see the thrilled expression on Benjamin’s face and know that he sees this means they KNOW he is making great strides. I follow them to the track, perch myself on the sidelines, prepared to cheer internally because “momma, you’re embarrassing when you cheer for me out loud”, and have my phone ready to capture all wonderful moments as usual. They start out, practicing starting and stopping, balancing while biking slowly and gaining speed, and even coasting. Then it happens. That one moment you pray and hope for. He is riding a bike and no one is holding on.

For a moment the world went silent and slow motion happened, much like the movies. I see him on the other side of the track. I see the runner move from behind him to next to him. I watch his shocked expression as he too realizes he is riding his bike. The world moves again, and everyone is cheering—I find myself cheering too, despite his cautioning me in the morning. He comes around and glides to a stop. Families around him, other teams, and riders are all cheering and clapping for him. He is exploding with confidence, shock, and excitement. Our eyes meet and that’s all he needs—he gets back on, this time they only hold on while he gets started, and then he’s off, doing a full lap without a runner, he’s riding independently, only a biker from his team riding alongside him to coach him as needed.

Once he comes back to his team, they say “what do you think about riding in the parking lot on the hills?” He immediately lights up: “Sure!” They move to the parking lot; I follow behind, realizing my cheeks are wet with happy tears. I stop to watch him ride in the parking lot, ‘off the track’ he had just stated this morning he didn’t think he’d be doing. At that moment, I don’t see my 9-year-old child, I see the non-verbal 3-year-old that doctors told me would struggle, the newly diagnosed Level 2 ASD 6-year-old who couldn’t read, the ‘behavioral’ 8-year-old who needed a 1-1 because others couldn’t understand how he regulated—I see the child who, despite what others said about him, pushed against the expectations placed on him and surprised professionals with his progress then, just as he is doing now. I see the perseverance that has always thrived within my child. I see a glimpse of the changes he is making in the world just by being himself—believing and accomplishing, which is more than what many can do.

We look to Day 5, the final day of Bike First, the close of Year 3 for Benjamin, and I no longer
wonder whether I should hope. I am reminded again that there are no limitations on what my
child can accomplish. I am filled with the dreams of possibilities. In the 3 years Benjamin has
participated in Bike First, he has gained not only skills needed for biking, but also independence
and confidence. Every year has been a blessing, watching him make gains, cheering with others
who understand the accomplishments, no matter how small, and seeing him grow into a child
who feels accepted because of the community that is Bike First. I know that we will be a ‘forever
family’ involved in Bike First for years to come—being the sideline cheerleaders, the encourager
to families who felt just like me, the riders demonstrating that anything is possible with
perseverance and believing in yourself, and supporting the dreams of EVERYONE, no matter the
limitations that are placed on them by themselves or others around them.