Leo wasn't. "Can’t I just keep the small wheels for one more week?"

Leo pedaled. He stopped thinking about the "falling" and started feeling the "moving." By the time he reached the mailbox, his father’s hand was no longer on the seat. Leo was gliding. The wind, which had felt like a wall before, was now a cool hand against his face.

He didn't ride a mile that day. He didn't even make it to the end of the block. But when he parked the bike back in the garage, he wasn't the same kid who had walked out. The distance didn't matter; the fact that he had moved forward did.

This time, Leo didn’t look at the end of the street. He looked at a single oil stain on the concrete five feet away. He pushed. One pedal rotation. Two. The bike leaned left, and he corrected it. It leaned right, and he corrected it again. He reached the oil stain. "I did it," he whispered. "Five more feet," his dad called out.