My indignity is not unique, of course, though it is not far off. According to a federal survey conducted in 2002, 3 percent of Americans 16 or older who did not use bicycles said they abstained because they did not know how to ride.

The class on Saturday was held on East 25th Street, on a block that had been closed to traffic for the morning beside Madison Square Park. My dreams of attending a children’s class, à la Kramer in karate training on “Seinfeld” — “We’re all at the same skill level, Jerry!” — would go unrealized; Bike New York offers separate sessions for children. But I did stick out in another way: I was the only man in a group of about 15.

At first, this, too, appeared to be a disadvantage. As we gathered to affix name tags to our shirts, our instructor, Lance Jacobs, said riding might be easier for those who ski, dance or do yoga. Several classmates smiled.

I do none of these things, and it is perhaps worth noting at this moment of driver-cyclist acrimony in our city that I have also never owned a car — a symptom of a life lived only in northeastern cities.

After matching us with helmets and bikes, Mr. Jacobs directed us to walk the bikes in a small circle. I completed this task expertly. In the distance, a girl no older than 8 zipped toward Park Avenue, sans training wheels, with blue streamers hanging off her handlebars. She grinned tauntingly through her baby teeth.

“How was that?” Mr. Jacobs asked the group as we returned. “Was that fun?” It was then that I noticed my bike had no pedals. These would be earned later, Mr. Jacobs said, once we proved we could sit astride the bike and balance ourselves while pushing off the ground with our feet. I enjoyed brief success at this, too, enough so that as I passed an older classmate, she huffed that I was “like, already riding.” She would have her revenge. She had not yet seen me turn.