My knees are shaking, feeling like they are about to collapse. I’m not sure if my heart is pounding because I am nervous or excited. I swear my eardrums are about to burst from the screaming and cheering from the crowd. My right leg is beginning to cramp from holding my bike up while sitting in one place for the last 20 minutes. As the big, metal gates slowly open, I balance myself back on my bike and begin to slowly petal forward. The crowd of what it seemed like a thousand people, along with my Mom and I, begin to flood out of the enclosed area like rats being set free from a cage. With the look of determination on my face, I begin the 75 mile race.
Five miles in, my hands already begin slipping off my handlebars because of all of the sweat. No, I’m not sweating because it is hot or because I am …show more content…
I pedal in silence. All I hear is the clicking and clacking of the gears in my bike. I hear the morning birds chirping one after another. The sun peeks out from behind the trees almost blinding me from seeing ahead. Finally, I look a bit to the right to see “25 miles” in big black letters on a white sign shoved into the ground. I relax the tension in my hands and back. I feel so relieved that I biked a third of the race.
But it isn’t long until I begin to build that tension back up as I witness the struggle of other bikers. A middle aged man, just ahead, is dressed as if he has been biking professionally for years; although his skills speak differently. Swerving left and right, he looks as if he had a couple of drinks before hand. With his front wheel coming out from underneath him, his body hits the hard, cement road. Others, not too far behind him, quickly stop to help the injured man who was too weak to continue. The air is filled with panic as the ear-piercing sirens of the nearby ambulances get louder and
Five miles in, my hands already begin slipping off my handlebars because of all of the sweat. No, I’m not sweating because it is hot or because I am …show more content…
I pedal in silence. All I hear is the clicking and clacking of the gears in my bike. I hear the morning birds chirping one after another. The sun peeks out from behind the trees almost blinding me from seeing ahead. Finally, I look a bit to the right to see “25 miles” in big black letters on a white sign shoved into the ground. I relax the tension in my hands and back. I feel so relieved that I biked a third of the race.
But it isn’t long until I begin to build that tension back up as I witness the struggle of other bikers. A middle aged man, just ahead, is dressed as if he has been biking professionally for years; although his skills speak differently. Swerving left and right, he looks as if he had a couple of drinks before hand. With his front wheel coming out from underneath him, his body hits the hard, cement road. Others, not too far behind him, quickly stop to help the injured man who was too weak to continue. The air is filled with panic as the ear-piercing sirens of the nearby ambulances get louder and