It was my fifty-seventh birthday, June 8, 1984. I was on Nantucket's Polpis Road. It was a hot and sunny day. I'd passed the lifesaving station on my left; to the right were the moors. Endless reaches of briar in budding earth colors disappeared into nothingness, creating an island eeriness that often seemed breathtaking.

My blue Motobecane bicycle was performing smoothly on this oddly windless afternoon. Did I dare let the bike do the work? I could see the heat rippling off the newly paved asphalt. Not a car in sight. Dare I let go? Allow myself to ride no hands? I had seen this deed performed hundreds of times by others but never had had the guts to do it myself.

I felt I had never earned the rite of passage into manhood by riding no hands. I equated this failure with cowardice. The need to ride no hands had been festering in me since childhood.

Pedaling on toward Siasconset, I saw nothing coming toward me, no cars, no bikers, just a few gulls soaring lazily in the sky above. I challenged myself to lift both hands off the handlebars. Immediately I imagined the bike veering out of control and myself hurled face-forward onto the pavement.

I assured myself that this could not happen on my fifty-seventh birthday, so I timidly lifted my right hand a few inches into space. My legs pumped a little harder. So did my heart. I tried to maintain a constant speed while building up my nerve. The more I pumped, the braver I tried to feel. I raised my right hand a little higher. I was riding one hand. Big deal. Now could I lift the other hand? Would a bump or a pebble do me in? What about a sudden gust of wind?

I stared at the handlebars. Were they trustworthy? Was the world trustworthy? Suddenly it hit me: They're a rudder. The handlebars are a rudder. As long as I stay centered and keep pumping, nothing can go wrong. You don't have to be Einstein. Kids in Minneapolis and Denver and Brooklyn are doing this right now.

Do it before fear overcomes logic. Before a tortoise crossing the road makes me a coward.

I did a quick sh'ma, the Hebrew prayer said at times of peril, lifted both hands, sat back, and let the bike do the rest. I could feel my entire being released. It was like a weight I was no longer carrying. I was feeling nothing. I'd never before experienced feeling nothing. I felt free of the need to judge myself.

The bike now had a life of its own. It didn't need me. I was a mere passenger. Everything around me was now in Technicolor. I could see flowers blooming everywhere. Judy Garland was alive.

A car was approaching. Would I panic? Would he panic? I waved my arms high above my head, like a cyclist I'd seen on The Ed Sullivan Show. "Look, Ma, no hands!" I shouted. The car passed. I was no longer afraid of being afraid.

I didn't want this to end. More cars passed, some coming from behind me. I was past Quidnet. I'd cycled more than a mile. Then it hit me. Balance. It was balance, not courage.

What next? Could I do no hands with my eyes closed? As I breezed past the lighthouse, I looked at my watch. Eight minutes. No hands. I'd done it. Leo would have been proud of me.

It was my cousin Leo who had given me my first ride down Snake Hill in East New York on his handlebars. He arrived on his two-wheeler like a shining knight out of Canarsie. He lived on Farragut Road, four stops by subway from Livonia Avenue and Hinsdale. To me, it seemed as if he'd navigated oceans to come that distance. He was fourteen and I was nine.

Leo was tall for his age. He had that smile that guys in the movies flashed to show courage when they faced danger. I loved it that someone in our family could laugh at danger.

Riding on the handlebars was a very unnatural act, I thought. How does anyone sit on a pipe while another person keeps balance? What if I shift my weight? Won't the whole thing fall over and land us on the street?

"Climb on," Leo said, with no hint of any concern that we might spill over and break our necks.

"Okay," I said like some puppy dog, acting on faith.

In seconds, we were moving. Leo's body was off the seat, his head jutting over mine like a sprinter. He was pumping steadily up toward Du-mont, past Blake, past Belmont, almost to Pitkin, the wind hitting us square on. Leo was alive, seemingly out of body. I wanted to be him, but I was only a passenger and he the pilot. We spun past pushcarts, side-swiped automobiles, wove our way through kids playing ring-a-levio and kick-the-can. We had wheels and were moving, while everyone else was standing still. I had no control over what was happening. It was Leo's trip, and his spidery arms held me prisoner. It felt great.

Minutes later we were back in front of the house on Livonia Avenue at Hinsdale.

"Do you want to try it?" he said.

Before I could say "I'm scared," he took out a wrench, lowered the seat, and I was on the bike.

"Now just pedal. I'll be behind you, holding the seat."

I obeyed. I could feel Leo's hands on the seat, keeping me balanced. I felt safe.

"Go," he said.

Suddenly I realized I was on my own. Free. Moving without anyone's help. And at that moment I felt brave and powerful.