Our family lives within a mile of three pizza places. As a teen, our son Kyle would ride to all of them, bringing home dinner in greasy cardboard boxes pinned to the handlebars by a left hand that couldn't grip. Kyle rode everywhere—to the 7-Eleven, the video store, the mall. He even wrote a column for a suburban newspaper called "Critics on Bikes," reviewing restaurants within riding distance. Cycling was freedom and independence for Kyle. "This was the best day of my life," he said one summer night after riding 40 miles to nowhere in particular.

That freedom and independence didn't come easily. Shortly after his premature birth, a pinhead of blood on Kyle's brain hinted at the cerebral palsy that manifests itself on his left side. That foot points down, so he walks on the toes. That arm can't fully extend. That hand can't turn palm up.

If that weren't enough, Kyle was the second-shortest kid in school, a distinction that lasted only until his friend Jodie had a growth spurt.

When he was 5, we bought Kyle a toddler-sized bike. He would spend long minutes getting balanced on the seat, plastic training wheels keeping him upright. His quavering left foot would push the pedal down—1 o'clock, 3 o'clock, 6 o'clock—and the bike would creep forward as the opposite pedal climbed.

As soon as the powerful right foot crested midnight, it would race downward at a pace the left foot couldn't match. When his foot inevitably slipped, the pedal would slap Kyle's left calf, and the bike would topple. He was a mosaic of bruises before he mastered riding, and even after he grew into a larger bike, Kyle could not balance on two wheels.

By his ninth summer, Kyle was embarrassed by the training wheels. I stripped them off and held the bike steady while he firmed his feet on the pedals. I gave a slight shove. Halfway down a grassy slope, maybe 20 feet into the ride, the bike spilled. I pushed it back up the playground hill for another try.

Again and again his left side betrayed him. If he focused on the leg, the unsupervised arm would pull tight, causing the bike to spiral off course. If he concentrated on the arm, the unwatched foot would slip from the pedal.

Kyle continued the work that entire summer, his bruises and scrapes bearing witness to his hours of effort, his leg trembling from overuse. Finally, one evening he was waiting in the driveway when I came home from work. "Watch this," he said. Leaning against a stout maple, Kyle mounted the bike, adjusted his feet, and took off shakily, riding to the neighbor's house and back. Days later, he could ride from a standing start.

With each succeeding summer, Kyle extended his range. At 13, he'd ride to where the street paving ends, then follow the dirt road a mile down the river to the dock used by the local rowing club. It was quiet there, and Kyle would sit and drink a soda.

At 16, he would ride to a nearby state, 40 miles round trip on a paved trail. He pedaled slowly, enjoying the journey. Sometimes he'd rendezvous with friends for a movie, after which they'd climb into cars and Kyle would mount his bicycle to go home, a headlamp lighting the way.

Today Kyle is a college graduate, living 300 miles from the grassy slope where he first learned to ride. His bike is always close but seldom used. He's earning new freedoms one challenge at a time, without the aid of training wheels.

Dan Hansen is a writer, a father of two, and a school board member. He lives in Millwood, WA, with his artist wife, Pam. They have two grown children and two grandchildren, the older of whom, at age 5, is already enjoying the freedom of riding a bike.