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Motivation: the general desire or willingness of someone to do something. Motivation is perhaps the most crucial element in a child’s life. Throughout my entire life my dad has motivated me to keep on going. He has helped me on numerous occasions despite the fact that I was never a fast learner. The self-motivation that my dad instilled into me has kept me prospering until this day.
I got my first bike in the summer of 2002, when I was eight years old. After seeing all the other kids riding bikes outside, I decided it was my time to finally try it out. I felt like such a big girl. My dad took me to K-Mart to pick one out. I sat on numerous frilly, girly bikes, but none suited me; so I decided to get a boy bike. It had blue stripe going up the black fender that covered the chain and came with matching training wheels; it was awesome. I was so proud to show it off to all of my friends.
After I got home, I couldn’t stop staring at my brand new bike. I even wanted to bring it into my room to sleep with it. The next day came; and I was so frightened to ride it. There was no way that I was going to control that enormous piece of metal. It remained in my garage for a month because I refused to ride it. Honestly, I was scared to try it. After a month, my dad was fed up with my attitude of giving up or running away when it came to difficult tasks. So, I finally decided to give it a try. My dad brought me to the park early in the morning and nobody was there. I first started out with training wheels. It turned out to be pretty easy, and as I got use to riding with training wheels, my dad decided it was time to take them off a couple days later.
My dad got out a wrench and began to take off the training wheels. I watched irritably with each turn of the wrench. It seemed to be endless but finally the training wheels were off and part of my past. "Come on Daddy. I wanna ride, I wanna ride. Hurry up!" I shouted enthusiastically. Patience was never one of my abundant qualities. I hopped on the bike, put one foot on the pedal, and then the other. Down I went. Fortunately, the first time that I fell I was on the grass. I was immensely frustrated since I fell, but my dad rushed over to see if I was okay. This time, with my dad firmly holding onto it with both hands. I began to pedal as he walked along side me in the park. Soon, we moved out onto the sidewalk. We did this for a few days before he felt comfortable of letting me go.
Then came the day he let go of the bike. I peddled my bike a little ways up the sidewalk on my own. I was a little wobbly but overall, I was doing fairly well until I hit a bump in the sidewalk and fell. I skinned my knee and began to cry. It was official, I wanted to give up. After days of practicing, I thought it was going to get better, but I was wrong. I failed my dad, I failed myself. I told him, I didn’t want to practice anymore, I put in my best effort, and I did it for nothing. My dad kept telling me that it was going to get better, just keep on practicing, but in my mind, it was never going to happen.
For most of the summer, I sat outside my front porch, watching kids have fun. I knew I was an easy quitter, but I didn’t really care; it was pretty pathetic to be honest. When my dad came home from work one day, he took my bike out of the garage and basically dragged me to the park. He told me to get on that bike as he held the seat, and I began to ride. I started to wobble but he would never let me fall. I was confident that he was going to be there even if I did fall, and he was confident that I was going to succeed this time. He knew the right time when to let go, and to loosen his grip. I’ve seen this love and support time after time, throughout elementary school to high school. He wasn’t afraid to let me wobble a bit and would never make the mistake of holding on with a firm grip that prevented me from learning to navigate life on my own.
After days of practicing, I was getting better; I fell a couple times but got back on again and again. My dad let go, this time without me knowing. I peddled all the way up the sidewalk like a professional. When I got to the end of the sidewalk, I stopped and put my feet down. Sensing my dad wasn’t holding on, I looked behind and he was walking up the sidewalk to meet me.
While riding with my dad he offered me words of encouragement or helpful advice like "Lean a little more to your right!" or "Pedal a bit faster!" But thankfully, he never shouted at me in frustration or made me feel weak for my failed attempts. Sometimes a well-placed suggestion here is much more valuable than a bombardment of endless instructions whether in bike riding or in life. My dad gave me that feeling of "I’m doing it! I’m really doing it!" That quiet confidence that my dad instilled has allowed me to recreate that feeling a few more times throughout my life even though I may have
The way we learn how to ride a bike can be a strong influence of how we will approach other encounters in our life. He is the one who taught me how it’s not about falling down but it’s about how to get back up. He showed me what it means to ride my bike through life.
I’m a ninth grader and it is a reflective essay on a moment in our lives that affected us till this day.