"Mountain Biking"

In the neighborhood I lived in as a kid there was a park that my dad and I would ride our bikes at. It was a two and half mile course, an enjoyable bike ride and I looked forward to them every week. I would chat with dad about school and whatever else was on my mind as we would pedal along. My favorite part was that it was my time with dad, no little sisters to get in the way to ask, “Are we riding the whole way around?”

On one trail there was a small hill that I could never gain enough speed to get to the top of; I was maybe six or seven, so it looked like a mountain to me. Dad would zip right up to the top of the hill and I would stay at the bottom whining, “I can’t make it up there.” Dad would always ride back down and we would back up from the bottom of the “mountain” to get some speed to get to the top. He would always make it, I would always chicken out.

Eventually I would just walk my bike up and dad would say, “you can try again next time.” So from then on every time we went to ride around the trail we would go to the hill and I would try to make it to the top. I really can’t remember if I ever did make it to the top on my own. I don’t know why that hill was so scary to me. It was probably the loose gravel that worried me the most. When dad and I talk about our park/neighborhood bike rides the famous hill usually comes up. Then I change the subject quickly by saying, “remember that little dog that would sit on the neighbor’s porch and chase us every time we rode by its house?”