The wind was calm and the sun was hot. The summer day was marked by songbirds in the trees and the exuberance of children playing on the neighborhood streets. The sunlight danced across my skin with the faintest sensation, like a feather duster. I sat on my bike's ill-padded pink-fluorescent seat while my feet stayed planted on the concrete, avoiding the pedals. My small hands clenched the rubber handlebars. I was terrified but determined to conquer the driveway.

           The wind was calm and the sun was hot. The summer day was marked by songbirds in the trees and the exuberance of children playing on the neighborhood streets. The sunlight danced across my skin with the faintest sensation, like a feather duster. I sat on my bike's ill-padded pink-fluorescent seat while my feet stayed planted on the concrete, avoiding the pedals. My small hands clenched the rubber handlebars. I was terrified but determined to conquer the driveway.
           The slight bicycle, newly and utterly free of training wheels, waited patiently between my legs while I stared down the throat of the beast. The driveway was relatively short in length, only twenty feet or so, but it sloped down to the narrow street at a shockingly steep angle. The top third of the driveway was level, offering a short platform of stability right out of the garage. It was a sort of preparatory apparatus, akin to the diver's springboard or the gymnast's vault. It was the place that one collected their thoughts right before hurling themselves over the edge.
           I had obstacles. Where the bottom of the driveway plunged into the street the concrete and asphalt did not merge flawlessly into one another. The street sat an inch and a half above the end of the drive, creating a lip. It was a lip with teeth. Given the opportunity and wrong angle, the obstacle would bite down hard on the front wheel of your roller blade and send your ass flying across the street, face first, into the woods. The street was not wide enough for two cars to pass on either side at the same time, meaning there was no room for error in turning. The bike needed to maintain a controlled speed and precise angle down the driveway, and if it did not, that was the end of it.
           My big sister stood beside me, one hand on the handlebar, the other on my seat. She held me steady even though I had not put my full weight on the pedals yet. Her tanned skin, tanner than mine, was growing darker by the minute as we stood at the top of the driveway and checked all my protective gear one last time. She spoke to me, giving last minute suggestions as closely as she could with my massive Styrofoam helmet obstructing most of the circumference of my head. She nudged my small feet with the rubber toe of her sneaker while she reminded me to peddle backwards to break. I knew three things to be true at that point: my parents had not ok'd this activity, this was all my sister's idea, and I was probably going to die.
           When I finally lifted my feet to the pedals, I looked across the street to the dense woods some thirty feet away. The foliage was green and flourishing in the heat. The plants and trees and bushes formed a solid wall of greenery. I wiggled my butt into position and slid my index finger underneath the strap of my helmet to eliminate the annoying pinch of the plastic buckle. My sister distanced herself before giving me a push. I shrieked. The bike was accelerating down the driveway with absolutely no resistance. The wheels moved faster. My legs and feet moved mindlessly. The bike entered the street with ease and grace but suddenly a stump caught my front wheel. I forgot to pedal backwards, I thought, while I was airborne, heading face first into the green labyrinth.