
The little bike waits by the fence, little one, and you are not talking to it. Yesterday it tipped you into the grass, and your hands still remember the bump. Today everyone says try again, and your whole body says absolutely not.

'A bike quarrel,' says Growy, nodding wisely. 'These are serious. Allow me to show you how the professionals ride.' Growy mounts the bike, rings the bell twice, sets off with tremendous confidence, and rides directly into the bush at the end of the path. The bush shakes. Growy emerges wearing half of it like a leafy hat, climbs straight back on, and hums.

'You fell into a bush and you are HUMMING,' you say. 'Of course,' says Growy, spitting out a leaf. 'That was fall number one. Everybody who rides has a number. Some needed twenty falls, some needed fifty. Every fall you use up is one you never have to fall again. So really, the bush was progress.'

You get on. Growy trots alongside, one paw near the seat. 'Now the secret: look where you WANT to go, never down at the wheels.' And when you lift your eyes to the end of the path, you see it: the wheels start leaving a thin trail of light behind you, glowing like a ribbon. You peek down at your feet, and the trail goes out. Eyes up: it glows again. 'Falling is not the opposite of riding,' Growy calls. 'Falling is part of how riding is learned.'

The wobbles are still there, but now they live inside a long, bright ribbon of light that follows you all the way down the path. You stop by the fence, breathing hard, taller somehow. 'So, little one,' Growy asks, still picking leaves from one ear, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'When a try goes wrong, say: that was one of the falls it takes. Then have one more go.' See you tomorrow, little one.
