I don’t know how to ride a bike.

Laugh it up. Point at the 20-year-old who never outgrew the training wheels, whose only bicycle was pink with flowers on the basket and had colored spokes on the wheels. And yes, it had four wheels.

It’s not that I’ve never tried. Freshman year, my roommate dragged me to Audubon Park, determined to introduce me to the fun that is the bicycle. I gave it a shot, climbed aboard and threatened her with imminent death should she let go. I was a wuss. But I tried.

I teetered and fell over, jumping out of the way of that murderous invention, swerving to avoid joggers.

I think my longest stretch of actual bike riding lasted about 20 feet before I started to tip over and freak out. I was beginning to enjoy myself, the wind in my hair, wheels turning, just me and the pavement and these TWO wheels – until a middle-aged man on roller blades yelled at me for getting in his way. He didn’t believe me when I told him I was a beginner.

That ended the fun of the afternoon. And my career as a bike rider.

The truth is, most people don’t believe me when I first unveil this little tidbit of knowledge. After all, how can any red-blooded American who was raised in the suburbs grow up without learning how to ride a bike? Apparently I missed out on a rite of passage, and I am not really human, nor grown up.

I could blame my parents for never insisting I learn. My dad did try to get me on a bike last summer, but I told him it was too little too late. I could say it’s because I’m the youngest in a family of four, and while the other three are all adept cyclists, my parents lost interest in chasing tottering children on wheels down the street by the time I came of age.

I get jealous sometimes, watching other students cruising across campus on their two wheels. They don’t have to worry about fluctuating gas prices or the scarcity of parking. Women in the mall parking lot don’t curse them for taking their spaces. Their friends and coworkers don’t harass them for rides home, to the bank or the grocery store. I hear that handlebars aren’t particularly comfy.

I think everybody should learn to embrace their shortcomings. We can’t all be rocket scientists, talented musicians, or phenomenal artists. We can’t all cruise the streets with ease, swerving into traffic and inducing attacks of profanity from the vehicular road warriors. So what if I can’t ride a bike? I know all the words to Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby.” I’m pretty good at crossword puzzles. I can drive a stick shift.

They’re small victories, but I’ll take them. And you’ll appreciate my lack of bicycle skill when you need a ride home from one of the bars and can’t remember how to operate your Schwinn. I’ll be the one with the car.