We stepped out for a simple plan today. Hill repeats on the small climb, not very far away from home. Nothing heroic. Not a remote mountain. Not an intimidating ascent. Just a father, a kid, two bikes, and a shy neighbourhood slope pretending to be a peak. Aiming for 500m of elevation gain. Nothing dramatic.
We started side by side. My legs doing their usual morning negotiation, his legs doing whatever sorcery young legs do. A few loops in, he looked at me and said, almost casually,
“Acha, I can go faster… but I don’t want to ride alone. When I pass you on the way down, just take a U-turn.”
That line… it’s going to sit with me for a long time.
So he flew. Smooth. Steady. Almost annoyingly effortless. Each time he came gliding down, he’d throw me that glance. Quick. Familiar. That quiet there-you-are check-in. And every single time, I swung my bike around like a loyal satellite. Another loop surrendered. Another climb abandoned mid-dream.
Somewhere between those loops, I realised I wasn’t sure what to feel.
Pride. Because he’s grown into this fantastic rider with his own rhythm. His own strength. His own tiny philosophies about not riding alone. About companionship. About speed.
Or a mild, harmless sulk. Because I couldn’t keep up. And the hill reminded me of that every single time he zipped past.
Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s the whole point. Watching your kid pull ahead isn’t a defeat. It’s a strange, beautiful ache. The kind that makes you smile even as you’re gasping for breath.
Today, he climbed. And I followed. And for once, falling behind felt exactly right.
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