I’m walking through the Santa Monica park, between exercise stations— dips to pull-ups. Passing the series of three low tubes, about ten feet in length and six inches in diameter, arranged in an end to end zig-zag across the grass, I notice a girl of around eight years old with her mother drop their bikes in the grass and run up to the equipment.
I always savor seeing parents and kids exercising together with reckless abandon in the park. Gives me hope. Maybe the next generation will boldly favor physical fitness, just as a matter of course.
The girl leaps over and onto the tubes, balances easily, and encourages mom to join in. She tries.
Mom stands in front of one of the low tubes, contemplating a single leap over. The tube’s height is about 10 inches— maybe mid-calf. Mom’s even wearing a bike helmet! Yet, she hesitates.
Again, she bends her knees to coil her spring, swings her arms to unweight her body, and…balks. Several more times. In between, her body language speaks: frustration.
Her daughter, pauses her careless play. “C’mon, mom!” Once more mom loads up, but just won’t pull the trigger. She quits.
If she’d been asked earlier whether or not she could jump over a ten inch hurdle, she might have said with confidence, “Yeah, of course.” Why can’t she do it now?
They climb aboard their bikes and ride fifty feet to the next station.
Fruit usually falls close to the tree. Happily, some rolls beyond its shadow.