The boys and I rode our bikes to the Scottish games yesterday. When we ride, the boys take turns being in front. Our youngest typically leads the way to the bike trail, and then his older brother takes over until we reach the first intersection.
I try to let the boys set their own pace, chiming in only occasionally to let them know if we need to speed up.
This time, however, my oldest son was riding really slowly. He was clearly in a very low gear, with his feet spinning a mile-a-minute but the bike barely moving at all.
“Could you shift up?” I asked.
“But I like this,” he said.
“Just a little faster,” I said. “It’s hard for me to stay on my bike at this pace.”
“Fine.” He reached forward, twisted his shifter, and rocketed forward, standing on the pedals so that he could keep his feet spinning at the same rate as when he’d been in low gear.
“Wha-?” My youngest looked at me, and then at the sight of my oldest son dwindling in the distance.
I sighed. “We better catch up.”
He laughed. “Next time, don’t tell him to shift.”
I’ll do better than that. Next time I’ll bring a lasso.