when I was about eight years old, riding a bike for the first time. I feel old and useless on this
rusted bike; all of the other children know how to ride by now and I am just starting. The bike
looks harmless enough, its fading purple paint and daisy stickers are peeling off and the glittery
handle bars seem inviting. This modest machine, however, would later turn into wheels of
horror.
I start off timidly, no need to rush. I wobble a couple of feet down my flat and welcoming
driveway, building confidence and speed. I have not yet mastered the brakes as I am still
dragging my feet on the cement, but I am feeling braver. After a couple hours of practice, I feel
I am ready to ride down the street. I begin to peddle painfully slow, my handle bars and eyes
sparkling in the sun. I am ready now; I can feel my heart knocking through my chest and the
stale summer air rushing onto my round cheeks. I am riding a bike! I am riding, riding, riding a
bike! I am going, going, going-to fall.
A small rock makes my front wheel swerve to the left, and suddenly I am hurtling down my
neighbor's monstrously steep driveway. My honey colored hair is crashing like waves under my
pink helmet, my breath is violently bouncing out of my lungs, and my small and helpless hands
are digging into the handlebars in glittery terror. After it feels as though I have ridden down a
cheese grater, I am slammed into my neighbor's garage door. This abrupt ending leaves me
stunned until I begin to feel the warm flow of reality running out of my nose. The blood is
persistent and steadily leaks through the cracks of my fingers. By the time my mother has come
to help me, my sleeves are damp with crimson and my bike looks as though it has been
murdered. The mix of tears and blood on my face almost makes me unrecognizable, but that
awful, rusted bike is unmistakably mine.
He softly brushes his lips to mine and says gently, "Don't worry, it's just like riding a bike."
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