I knew what was coming. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I prepared myself for the challenge that lay ahead. This was my opportunity; I was going to finally do it. I took a sharp breath in, my shortness of breath was not from the physical exertion of peddling, but from anxiety spinning around my yellow helmet. I knew I was almost at the top, and I tried to stay calm as I slowed the fight against gravity. I saw my parents shift their gears higher, the clicking indicated that the time had come. I didn’t want to go faster, I liked the uphill pace: slow, steady, controlled. As we reached the top of the hill, I put on my breaks, the small gentle slope ahead grew to a steep cliff in my mind. I looked down, I wasn’t ready; the sun was too hot, I was too tired, my shoelaces weren’t double knotted. My mind was making every excuse I could think of to not go down the hill. I hesitated, and then yet again, surrendered to my cowardly excuses. I dismounted the two-wheeler and walked down the hill, disappointed and wearing a grimace of shame. Trudging down the challenge on my slow and dependable feet.
Though at some point between my seventh and seventeenth birthday I learned how to conquer the precarious downhill while still on my bicycle, I would still describe myself as someone who carefully considers the endeavors taken on, but sometimes, regardless of how hard you try to keep the brakes on, sometimes life throws you down a hill.
Up until last week, I did not know that a cliff of this height existed. Up until last week, my bicycle always had training wheels, my dad. Everyone always thought of him as being dependable in his commitments to his work, his friends, his family. But ironically, he abandoned me.