Our two-year-old daughter mounts the scooter. She places one unsteady foot in front of the other on its central board. An initial attempt at balance is rebuffed as gravity asserts itself and she yelps as the scooter leaves her feet, throwing her backwards. Her helmet, pink and cream, remains in place. Miraculously, there are no tears. Undaunted, our little Boudicca rights her chariot and repeats.
We’re in our local park, giving her – and us – a crash course in resilience. It is nail-biting. We bought her the thing in the hope we’d avoid the mess we made of her brother’s tutelage. He never warmed to the various scooters and bikes we’ve inherited from his older cousins and which now languish, substantially cobwebbed, in our shed. He showed no interest in using them, and we didn’t insist, due to the fact we weren’t particularly keen on equipping him with a vehicle that could wallop him into the path of cars at 20mph and, if we’re honest, pure old-fashioned laziness.
Now, of course, we feel stupid when we visit friends and see the joy, and speedy transport, their kids’ scooters provide. My son shows no such regrets and runs alongside these friends as they scoot, like a secret service agent escorting a presidential motorcade, evincing zero discomfort or embarrassment over this commitment to radical pedestrianism. Part of me thinks he’s just doubling down on; that he can’t possibly enjoy stretching and sweating while his friends sail effortlessly beside him. But, if that is the case and it is all an act, I can’t help but admire him more. He may not have the resilience of his sister when it comes to scooting, but his stubbornness is a marvel.
From his place on terra firma, he’s whispering encouragement in her ear. She’s back onboard and planning a tentative glide. He runs beside her as she finds her speed, a bright smile spreading across her face, and his. There’s no fear or trepidation on her face at all, just the hedonic rush of motion and the joy of seeing her fears crushed like so many mulched leaves under bright pink plastic wheels.
On the way back, she is scooting as if she’s been doing it for years, and with a cocksure swagger that suggests she occasionally gives demonstrations for cash. As we round the corner for home, we pass an older girl scooting towards us. She’s about four and clearly a local scooter pilot of great acclaim. As we pass, she gives our daughter a special acknowledgment, tapping her helmet and waving to signify that they are sisters of the board. Our girl can’t disguise her delight, and knowing not what else to say simply shouts: ‘Scooter!’ The other girl laughs and, as if to baptise our daughter officially into the sect, lets out a sparkling ding-ding-ding from the bell on her handlebars. We consider this, in small girl terms, roughly equivalent to a knighthood, and we turn to see how our little apprentice is taking it.
She’s staring, dumbfounded at the gap between her hand and the handlebars where we never thought to place a bell, motioning futile presses with her thumb.
‘Where’s my ding-ding-ding?’ she says, very close to tears.
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