My father is a very, shall we say, interesting man. He has methods that as a child, and even now I do not understand. Not to say that they don't work. They certainly did for me.

I was probably about seven or eight years old when my father taught me how to ride a bike. He took me to a local metro park, I think it was Sharon Woods, and put me on my bike that then still had the training wheels on it. He vowed to have me riding without them by the time the weekend was through. I'm not sure if he made this promise because of his ability to be stubborn beyond comprehension, or because of the vodka he had been drinking all day.

We rode around awhile with the training wheels on, and then took one of them off. Then the other. My father balanced the bike for me as I rode without them, just to get the hang of things. At that point, all was right in that little metro park.

Soon after getting comfortable with only two wheels instead of four, my father decided it would be a good idea to let me go on my own. I was doing okay til I forgot how to brake and ran head first into a giant oak tree (all trees are giant at that age though).

As I lay on the ground below my bike crying, my father comes over and picks the bike up, and then helps me up. He then asks me to get back on and try again. I'm seven years old, folks. I don't want to get on that bike. I want to see my mommy. And that's exactly what I said, or rather screamed.

My father has never been one for screaming, especially when it is being done by small children. So after about .3 seconds of me carrying on, he picks up my little pink bike, lifts it over his head, and then slams it down on the pavement of the park trail. He looks at me and yells in his nastiest tone with his meanest daddy look, "GET ON THE BIKE!" Which I promptly did.

I went home that day knowing how to ride a bike, but I never went to the park with my father again. He still can't figure out why.

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