Running Beside the Bicycle

Running Beside the Bicycle
5 lessons cycling can teach us about how learning really works

A quiet lane. A slightly wobbly bicycle. Small hands gripping the handlebars. Widened eyes. Feet on the pedals, then off. A grown-up crouched behind, one hand on the seat, the other on the back. A few nervous giggles. A pause. And then—movement.

We’ve all seen this moment. Maybe we’ve even lived it. Teaching someone to ride a bicycle is one of the most patient, persistent, and physically exhausting forms of teaching we ever do. And yet, we rarely think of it as “pedagogy.”

But what if we did?

Because tucked inside this everyday act is a whole philosophy of learning, a profoundly human, constructivist approach that speaks to what good teaching truly looks like.

Lesson One: Balance Before Speed

In cycling, no one starts with speed. The first goal is balance. Standing upright. Staying steady. Feeling your own body move in sync with the bike.

And here’s the thing: we can’t teach balance in the way we teach facts or formulas. We can guide, encourage, adjust—but the child has to feel it, deep in their own body. Balance is something that clicks, not because we explain it well, but because the learner experiences it fully.

So, we wait. We run alongside. We hold the seat and hold our breath. And we wait. We bring a lot of patience until something shifts. Until the learner begins to feel their own center of mass. Until they start to trust themselves.

We have no option but to wait for this to happen. We cannot hurry the process. We also provide extra support when they lose their balance.

In the classroom, too, before we rush toward the syllabus, we need to check: Is the learner steady? Have they found footing? Do they feel safe enough to wobble?

Constructivist learning doesn’t begin with the delivery of information. It starts with trust. With noticing. With meeting each learner where they are, not where we wish they were.

Lesson Two: Scaffolding Is Not a Script

When you run alongside someone learning to ride, you don’t just shout instructions: “Balance! Pedal! Turn left!” You hold the seat. You slow down when they’re scared and provide extra support when they lose balance. You speed up when they’re ready. You let go gently and catch them again if needed.

This is scaffolding. In classrooms, it means offering just enough support so that the learner can try. Not so much that we overpower their effort. And not so little that they’re left to fall and fend for themselves.

It’s dynamic, responsive, and exhausting. But it’s also what makes learning real.

Lesson Three: Teaching Is Energy-Intensive

The person teaching a child to ride a bicycle doesn’t just offer words. They run. They sweat. They fall, too, sometimes.

Good teaching is not passive. It demands emotional presence, physical stamina, and deep attunement. It’s not about standing still and watching someone fail until they “get it.” It’s about moving with the learner—sometimes literally.

In many ways, it’s more like coaching or parenting than lecturing. That’s not a flaw. That’s the design.

Lesson Four: Peer Learning Is Powerful

Ever seen a child teach another child to ride a bicycle?

There’s often less fear. More laughter. More stopping in between to notice the flowers or go down a slope just for fun. There’s a kind of unspoken understanding between learners who’ve just been in each other’s shoes.

Sometimes, the best person to help a learner is someone just a few steps ahead. A good teacher doesn’t miss such moments. They notice. They hold space. Sometimes, they even step aside so that the learning can unfold at its own rhythm.

Learning is not just a one-way street from expert to novice, but something that can emerge in communities—among peers, in play, in shared struggle.

Lesson Five: The Metacognition Process

While learning to cycle, the learner is not confused about whether they’ve acquired the skill. They know if they’re still wobbling. They know when they’ve pedalled farther than yesterday. They know what it feels like to ride without help.

They begin to notice what works: “If I look straight ahead, I stay steadier.” “If I pedal slowly, I don’t fall.” Over time, they become aware of their own progress. They know when to practise more—and why it helps.

This is metacognition—the awareness of one’s own learning. It’s knowing what you know, what you don’t yet know, and what helps you get there.

And yet, in many classrooms, this process is missing. Children are rarely asked: How did you arrive at this answer? What helped you understand it? What might help you better next time?

Without this pause for reflection, learning becomes mechanical. But when learners begin to notice their own learning—when they learn how they learn—something shifts. They become more independent. More curious. More empowered.

Just like a child who, one day, pushes off and rides down the path on their own without conscious effort.

Final Thought: The Road Ahead

So, what if we approached every new topic, every new child, and every new day, the way we approach teaching someone to ride a bicycle?

With patience. With movement. With careful scaffolding and joyful release. With the humility to run beside the learner, not race ahead. And the wisdom to know that sometimes, the best teachers are not the fastest or the most knowledgeable—but the ones who are willing to run, fall, and laugh along the way.