Ride Fast Like the Boys on TV

Gertrude has taken to riding Matilda's old bike.  We bought this pink Princess bike when Matilda was four.  It was her first bike.  Gertrude is two.  She slaps on her helmet, climbs on to the little pink turbo charged muscle bike and rides around in circles squealing with glee.  She is insane.
 
And, yes, she has training wheels.  Although, to be honest, the only purpose I see them serving is to let her take harder turns. 
 
At this age Matilda would have laughed at us if we mentioned a bike.  In fact, we wouldn't have mentioned a bike at all, because two is pretty darn young.  But we had the little bike hanging in the garage.  And Matilda was riding her bike. Gertrude, not knowing she isn't nine years old herself, demanded to try.  She fell off a few times, learned the idea of balance and . . . vroom.  Off like a bat out of hell.  I tell you, this kid is something else.
 
A few weeks ago I took her on a tour of the neighborhood.  She pedaled like she was trying to cross the border between East and West Germany while I ran at a full sprint holding on to the tail of her dress, trying to make sure she didn't get too far away from me.  The entire ordeal went something like this:
 
"BRAKE!  BRAKE!  HIT THE BRAKES!"
 
"SQUEEEEEEAAAAAAAAALLLLL!  GLEEEEEEEE!"
 
When we returned to the relative safety of the house, she had a grin plastered to her face like she had just discovered the secret of life.  Speed.  Since then, I've forced her to stay on our back patio, riding in circles.  Matilda has even drawn a chalk track for her to follow.  The worst thing that happens there is she and the dog get in each other's way or she crashes into a bush.  She bounces to her feet, says, "Whoops" and hops back on. 
 
Her new name is Crash.
 
Her poor little legs have scrapes and scratches galore on them.  To the point, in fact, where she doesn't have room for anymore.  Now, when she takes a spill, she hops up and says, "No boo boos!" And off she goes again.
 
(Yesterday I was outside playing my Uke while she rode.  She ran up to me and said, "Can I have a drink?  Nice song."  Then she ran off without allowing me to respond.  No time, I suppose.)
 
This weekend, however, I made a terrible mistake.  I watched the live coverage of the Tour de France.  There she sat, next to me, glued to the TV.
 
"Those boys are going fast," she said as they raced towards the end of the stage.
 
"Yes, they are," I said.
 
"I will ride fast," she said.
 
"I have no doubt."
 
She cheered as Lance Armstrong surged at the last minute to win the stage.  Perhaps she was feeding off my excitement because I happen to love Lance.  Why?  Don't know.  He's just amazing, I guess.
 
For the rest of the day she talked about bike racing.  She saw bike riders and mentioned riding fast.  She saw an ad in a magazine and talked about it.
 
Later, as she rode around her track she said, "Look at me!  I ride fast like the boys on TV!"
 
"You sure are going fast," I said.
 
"Not as fast as the boys on TV," she said.
 
But I could see in her eyes she had a goal.  And I saw the sparkle that said to me that I couldn't stop her.  When she wants something, even at two, she will stop at nothing to get it.
 
Especially if Daddy is involved.  Because she knows already that I will not rest until all her dreams are fulfilled.