First Ride, Breezy Point

It was summer sun at Breezy Point,
The lake all glass, the air anoint.
Your small hands wrapped the grips just right,
On your yellow PK Ripper, shining bright.

I’d just come back, dust on my face,
From Cuyuna’s climb, that wild place—
Legs still humming from red rock miles,
But none of it matched your nervous smile.

“Ready, Dad?” you asked so low,
Helmet crooked, eyes aglow.
I steadied the seat with calloused hand,
You wobbled like a colt that tries to stand.

Pedals turned and hearts held tight,
I jogged beside you, step for flight.
You didn’t know, but I let go—
And there you soared, all gold and glow.

Wind in your hair, a sudden shout,
“I’m doing it, Dad!”—no trace of doubt.
Across the lot, past pine and dock,
The moment cracked like a ticking clock.

You rode alone, and I just stood,
Swallowed up in fatherhood.
The yellow frame, the courage earned,
The way the world forever turned.

Later that night, we sat by the fire,
Your cheeks still red, your joy entire.
And I thought of trails and how they bend,
But this one here? It just began, my son.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.