One time when I was a kid Dad got me a two-wheeled bicycle. We went out to the driveway so he could teach me how to ride it. I looked down to the street at the bottom.
“No,” I said.
“But you have to,” Dad said. “The bike will allow you to go all over the neighborhood and play with all the other kids on their bikes.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“You should want to.”
Then I got up on the bike, and he held it so it wouldn’t tip over.
“How does it stay up on two really skinny wheels?” I asked.
“It stays up when you pedal,” he said.
I started pedaling and the bike started to go forward, but I didn’t really believe it could stay up without Dad holding it. Then suddenly he took his hand off, and the bike started to wobble, and I had to put my foot on the ground to stop it before I fell.
“Try again,” Dad said.
“Do I have to?” I asked.
Then we tried again, and I rode a little ways without Dad holding me up. It started to get a little fast, and I kept looking at the steep driveway. I knew I was going to fall eventually, so I decided to make it fall myself. I tipped it over and tumbled and skinned my knee.
“See!” I said.
“Try again,” Dad said. “The more you do it, the more you get the hang of it.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about riding bikes with other kids.”
“It’s easier than you’re making it.”
“No, it’s too hard, and I don’t want to.”
“You’re just going to quit then?”
Then I went inside and played Stuffed Animal War by myself and never rode the bike again.