A title was born...

Sixteen years ago on some lazy summer Sunday, my father took my brother, sister, and I out to a vaguely familiar country road to ride our bikes together. My brother had gotten a new Huffy earlier that summer. Its glossy black paint was still free of dust and dirt, the chain in perfect condition. Naturally, my sister complained... and complained... and complained... until she became the proud owner of her very own purple Huffy, the type specifically designed for middle-child syndromed 10 year old American girls, nevermind the fact she stuck her tongue out to all sweat-inducing activity, especially the type that required her going outdoors. Of course this meant that I would have to get a new bike, as well.

My mother dragged all three of us to the Maple City on her Saturday off, deflecting like a goalie, left and right, the inevitable backseat whines from my siblings. I was smiling wide as we drove into the, ahem, city, and even wider as I stepped into the store. Maybe thirty minutes later, I was on my way home with a forest green big-boy bike. I think it was a Monster, but I'm not sure anymore. Its letters have faded and worn with age and abuse.

I can still taste the rust in my mouth if I focus hard enough. Never an avid cyclist, to say the least, my mother waited for us at home while the rest of the family whirred past cornfields, grazing pastures, and stables. I felt so far from home at the time. Looking back, we had probably ridden only one mile North from our home. The distance didn't really matter, though. This was freedom, pure and whole. I knew how to ride a bike pretty well, a LeMond in the making, and I was holding my own until my skill flew from me for but a moment. My hands failed me, let the bike slip onto a gravel patch, the handlebars tipping to the right, the frame sliding from under me. I kissed the asphalt.

I'm not afraid of physical pain, not then, not now. You fall, cry about it, clean up the mess, and move on. Yet to this day, I find it difficult to let my bike really soar on big downhills, gingerly tapping the brakes as I coast. I avoid potentially damaging physical contact that, in general. But not because I'm afraid of the pain: I'm afraid of the consequences surrounding the pain. I'm afraid of spending time in a hospital, or having to fix or pay for new equipment. But this mindset extends far beyond physical activity. I think what I'm really I'm afraid of is uncertainty, of not knowing what is going to happen. So I fret, waver, and tap my toes in the water before I even think about diving in. Whether I'm brooding over a career change, asking a girl out on a date, or planning some life-changing trip, I tap the brakes. I need to kiss the asphalt again, if for no other reason than to know how it tastes.