Bicycle

I was a slim and athletic 10 year old girl and I was riding my coveted purple 10 speed bike down Carillion Lane in Texas one summer afternoon. The sky was brassy, sunlight diffused in the sky, the air heavy with late summer perpetual humidity. I was wearing a blue half-shirt and I had no fat on my small frame.  My fine, lifeless hair was bleached almost white and hung below my ears. I wore no helmet; all children went helmet-less in those days. I was pedaling as fast as I could back to my house on Palomino Drive, going fast for fun. I was full of endless energy as a child. I heard a car approaching behind me. I felt an urgency to get over to the curb and cut in front of the car. I sensed subconsciously as I chose to go for it, pedaling as fast as I could to dash in front of the car, that there would be an accident.  I slid and skid on the hot Texas asphalt. The delicate skin on my belly was covered in road rash. My elbows and knees suffered as well as my precious bike. That was my biggest concern- that my prized bicycle would be marred; who cared about my body!

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