A Boy

I'm walking in the park, getting my exercise, and this little kid riding along with training wheels suddenly loses control and falls off the bike right into the grass. I'm reading my book, minding my own business. Sighing, I straighten the bike and look down at him. He's wearing his helmet, lying on his side, knees bent in a fetal position. He is not whimpering, eyes are open, just lying there contemplating the insanity of bikes, learning at an early age about responsibility. He is a kid. Kids ride bikes. No one questions this chain of events, certainly not the boy.
I may have asked if he was okay. I certainly asked if he intended to get up. He hesitated, thinking it over, as if he had a choice. He finally does rise and climbs back on the bike, too embarrassed to thank me. I continue my walk. A few seconds later he again loses control, almost runs into me before regaining his balance. He glances at me sheepishly. All I can offer is two words--go slow.
He begins pedaling and is soon far off in the distance. I don't see him again.
Part of me admires his persistence. Part feels sorry for him because he will discover no matter how many times he falls he will be expected to get up and start over. And one day, after he's retired and just walking along, some fool kid on a bike may cause him to jump away, some silly kid going sideways when he should be going straight.