"I would assume you want an 8-speed," said Ken, the clerk at the bike rental shop, glancing at a monster ride on a rack above him. "That's got a little more power."

"Uhh," I stammered. "Actually, I don't know how to ride a bike. I'm learning for the first time today."

An awkward pause.

"Well, OK," Ken said. He points down a rack on the floor. "I'm gonna give you this ladies bike then. This way you won't hit your nuts on the bar when you fall forward."

"Umm, OK."

"Thank God we've got a liability waiver," Ken said, turning away from me and walking back behind the counter.

Along with rollerblading, swimming and whistling, 23-year-old Americans are supposed to know how to ride a bike. Discovering each should represent a milestone in their lives, a way to mark the passage into adulthood that's more real than the crossed off pages in a calendar.

I have learned none of these.

So I glided through elementary school, middle school, high school, college and my first job, all the while dropping jaws with my lack of skills. Although my inability to whistle along with the Monday Night Football theme song sent more than a few questioning stares my way, my lack of bike-related aptitude aroused the most ire.

"You don't know how to ride a bike?" someone would ask. "What's wrong with you?"

"It never interested me," I would answer and we'd usually move on to another topic.

My parents still know by heart their own stories of learning to ride. Both ditched the training wheels before they turned 8. But like me they have little recollection of my own few futile attempts. My dad thought the phenomenon was strange, but moved on. It was just something I didn't want to do.

Through time, my disinterest became a minor rebellion. Why should I learn how to do something just because everyone else can? My desire not to follow the crowd overwhelmed any curiosity that might have developed about bike riding. Living here, though, felt different. It seemed to be a safe place to end my ignorance.

So as most boys learned to ride on a small blue Huffy, with their dad holding the back of the banana seat, on the street in which they were raised, my situation was different. My bike? A red and gray 14-inch Regis Fuji with seven reflectors, handbrakes and "customized chromly"- whatever that means. I named her Sally. My teacher? A tall, 22-year-old, likeable fellow named Pat with soft hands, a bum shoulder and a bad hangover. My driveway? The parking lot of the Poynter Institute, a place where good journalists go to be broken down, and then if there's time, built back up.

It was 1 p.m. by the time Pat and I came to Poynter from the bike shop. I wore black gym shorts, a Nike Dri-Fit T-shirt and tied a blue bandana over my hair. Pat dressed in a T-shirt and yellow shorts with a sideways baseball hat. Our fuel was bagels and coffee. Earlier Pat told me he didn't look up any teaching techniques so he was planning on winging it. He also hurt his shoulder playing ultimate Frisbee the day before. The afternoon sun baked the blacktop, the student and the teacher.

"Who knows? You might be a natural," Pat said as we were driving his car with Sally in her stable on the car's bike rack.

"Yeah," I said.

"Then again, you might be a disaster," he said.

I was silent.

After strapping on my white, blue and black helmet, I looked at Sally. Bart, the photographer who had graciously agreed to document the occasion, came outside and complained about the lighting. Sweat moistened my bandana.

I patted Sally's black seat twice and climbed on from the back. Pat couldn't hide his laughter.

"People usually get on bikes from the side, but at least you're on," he said.

My hands gripped the dimpled, black rubber on the handlebars, my feet searched for the pedals and my boxer shorts began to ride up my legs. When I started, Pat held me from the side, providing momentum and stability. I leaned left and right, but mainly to the left into Pat, the force that kept me upright. We started and stopped again and again. I grimaced and puckered my lips at my failures. I felt inadequate, but not embarrassed. At one point, I dismounted Sally and watched Pat ride her effortlessly, trying to visualize myself in his position.

From trial-and-error and Pat's patience, I learned the key to my balance, and therefore my success, was my arms. They needed a certain stiffness to hold my weight evenly, but a certain slackness to maintain a relaxed readiness to move. I felt Pat's hands begin to hold me less and less. He started working up my momentum then pushing me off as I pedaled furiously until I would start to tip and squeeze the handbrake.

"One day," I said to Pat, "you're going to teach little Pat Junior how to ride his bicycle and he'll ask if you'd ever taught someone how to ride a bike before."

He said: "I'd tell him that I taught this loser named Liam."

"And on that day an angel got his wings," I said, taking off with a push from Pat.

One hour after we started, Pat had taught me all he could: balance, confidence, the importance of momentum. It was up to me to perfect my learning. Pat left to go watch the World Cup and I was alone.

During my six weeks at Poynter, I eased into my surroundings. My comfort with the other young journalists living with me grew into trust, then friendship. Before, I had dismissed my reluctance to ride a bike with a laugh and a change of subject. Here, I didn't want to hide anything. Instead of thinking: Why do I need to learn how to ride a bike? I asked, Why not try?

Later on that day, I would think that in our field we often have less than six weeks to earn the trust of our subjects. Like Pat did with me, we have to guide our sources, knowing when to pull back and when to let go. Like I discovered on my own, balancing is the key to success whether that's in riding a bike or developing a strong relationship with a subject. As reporters we must balance our questions with compassion for the people we cover.

My second hour with Sally smoothed the learning curve. I wobbled around to start, but once I gained energy I couldn't stop. I set a goal to navigate the parking lot twice without braking. After that I considered myself a rider. As it turns out, I wound up leaving more skid marks on the asphalt than on my body. Only an inch-long burn on my right elbow remains from my few falls. A blister rose on the inside of my right thumb and on my palm from gripping the handlebars. When riding fast - at least fast for me - the wind felt like it does when I'm driving down the road with all the windows in my car open. Bike riding didn't make me feel free, unburdened or even particularly successful. It was more a satisfaction than anything else. It seemed like I had just finished reading a long, gratifying novel. Coincidentally, instead of riding bicycles, that's how I spent my childhood. I tired of riding in circles around the parking lot. At peace, I pushed down Sally's kickstand and went inside to find Bart.

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