When I was young, about twelve or so, one of my favorite things to do was tear about my scenic neighborhood on my bike. It was a bright pink that offended the eyes it was so vibrant, with multi-colored (And by multi-colored I mean various shades of pink) streamers coming from the handlebars and a dark red basket. I didn’t care that most people were blinded by the sheer amount of pink on my bike because it was mine, and my love for it knew no bounds.
At the end of my street where I often terrorized people with the aforementioned pink bike was a hill that sloped upwards at an angle I have only seen since then in math problems.
It was a monster hill, where buzzards circled it’s peak and getting to the top was a breathless hike. Even teenagers walked their bikes up this hill, and that was enough to make any twelve-year-old wary.
The day of my incident was a sunny and perfect day with a clear blue sky. The sun warmed the roads and my brother and I spent a time playing with some softened tar before an idea struck me. This was the day I would tackle the monster hill on my rudely pink bicycle. I swung one leg over the pale pink seat and announced my intentions to my smaller and therefore wimpier brother.
“I’m going to ride up the hill!” I said, my jaw squared and my nose in the air.
“I don’t want you to die!” Evan cried, latching his sticky hands to my leg before I shook him off and headed towards my new goal. My little heart fluttered in anticipation of the respect I would earn from the other kids on my street. I began to slowly pedal towards the highest point in my tiny life, and the victory to come.
I caught sight of a car with dents in the side and a horrible green-blue paintjob. Two people were sitting in the car and one person was easing into the drivers seat. He was young, and it looked like his parents may have been taking him on his first ride. I was unconcerned by these things, grimly focused on the task ahead of me. I pedaled faster so I could slide behind the car before it pulled into the street, not wanting to stop and ruin my momentum.
I reached the halfway point before tragedy struck and my front tire slid into the largest crack my naive mind had ever witnessed. I screamed as the bike jerked to the left and toppled over, trapping me underneath the steel deathtrap that had moments ago been my beloved bike. I screamed louder as the car began to back towards me.
I couldn’t believe I was about to be squished by an aqua-colored clunker.
I desperately tried to wiggle free but paused when the car lurched to a stop. The driver seemed to launch himself from behind the wheel and towards me. His face was bloodless and his eyes seemed too big for his face. I began to cry.
He helped me up, stuttering apologies and continually asking if I was alright. When it was established that none of my bones were broken and my limbs were in fact not squished I began the slow process of walking back home, sniffling the entire time.
My brother teased me for days and the next time I went up that hill, I walked my bike to the top.
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