Just Like Riding A Bicycle

EYEING the contraption, I shake my head slowly, side to side, even as I feel my self-control slipping away, evaporating into the humid air. I inform them, straight out, that there was no freaking way they were getting me onto the bike.
Five minutes later, I'm sitting on a tandem bike behind the unfortunate soul who has been tasked to be my training wheels. A compromise had been reached. I ride for one hour - therapy against my phobia of bikes, they called it - and they would call it off and let me go back to sitting and moping around back at the bench we'd occupied/invaded.
Only of course, riding is not that simple. At least not for me. Do you have any idea how much courage it takes to lift both feet off the ground entrust your entire body onto two wheels whose width can't be much more than that of your thumbnail?
The big philosophy of bike-riding, as they told me, was that you had to let go. Put one foot on the pedal, press down for your first step then lift up the other foot and 'just' keep the momentum going. Just. As if it was an entirely natural process.
After maybe half an hour of attempting to get me to glue my feet to the pedals, they decided on a second course of action.
They would ride ahead and stop at every pit stop to wait for me. But I would have to ride there myself.
I have to admit that at some times coming down and going up slopes, turning corners and swerving around other bikers, my heart dropped into my stomach and seemed to sit there being digested by the pure fear that slammed itself into my brain - you're going to lose balance. You're going to fall and hurt yourself badly and they'll be too far away to hear so you'll just sit here and depreciate, or something.
I just kept pedalling, even though the sun was stinging my skin tomato-red and my sweat mingled with black oil stains off the pedals and wires.
With the wind on my face and my fear out back, I was beginning to believe I could fly.