When I first met Papa as a nine-year old boy on a farm in South Dakota, it was – to say the least – an odd sensation, especially to talk to my own father when he was three years younger than I. But after he, my sister, and I chatted for a few of the six minutes allotted to us, quickly bonding in the universal camaraderie of childhood, I felt like I’d know him for a long time; and, of course, I had. Judy, my ten year old sister, being two years my junior, as well as two years less adventurous, had freely expressed her reservations and reticence about crossing time’s natural boundaries on such a frivolous mission as to help our father learn how to ride a bicycle.

“Shouldn’t we do something more important,” Jude had asked me, her nervousness blended well with her native skepticism, “like – I don’t know – saving some kid from getting hit by a car, or something?”

“No,” I had responded, firmly and confidently, having thought the thing through carefully and having pondered the journey’s possible ramifications before giving the appropriate command to Herbert. “You see, Judith, we need to test ol’ Herbie, here, with something insignificant, something less far reaching,” I had argued, “lest we change something too significant and make irreversible and potentially destructive mistakes.”

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