Riding

The June sun burns above the dry yellow field, a wasteland. Smooth blacktop switches to crunchy gravel then to hard, rocky earth. My sweat-drenched fingers force the gear to a six. But the hill is high. We pedal and pedal as the backs of our necks tan and fry. I cringe as my thighs plead for a rest. Just one moment on solid ground, they beg. But I keep pedaling.

A bright blue lake comes into view. Gorgeous. My cotton dry throat reminds me of the sweet taste of water. But I keep my eyes on the dirt path. I lift the weight of my body into a standing position. Pain rips through my upper thighs. Each movement is heavier, longer, greater. We reach the peak. Downhill we race at demon speed. The exhilaration of flying down the curvy path stings my eyes and spins my stomach. Faster, faster, brake! I skid to a stop. But the sharp turn pulls the bike out from under me and I slam into thistles. Carefully I stand, swing a leg over the seat, and go. A race to the green rusty gate. Hard earth becomes gravel once again. My muscles throb as I twist the faucet and the clear, lukewarm water coats my throat. I can swallow again.