My writing

I decided to put up a sample of my writing up. I'm a big fan of fiction. I mean, I love fiction. I believe the world would be a better place if everyone read We Need to Talk About Kevin and a life without Stephen King isn't a life I want to lead. But I'm not posting any of my fiction right now. I'm posting a piece of work I'm quite proud of. It was a feature I wrote in college and got an A+ on. This was big for me because it showed me that I wasn't just a fiction writer, but an actual writer.

Hope you enjoy it,

Your Friend,

McGonz

My heart beats quickly in my chest, my face flushed with anticipation. I am anxiously waiting in a grassy area which is caught between a busy intersection and a small forest. Although the night is cool with a nice breeze coming in from the west, I can already feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Cars continuously roar pass, so I move behind some trees, blocking myself from the street view. I hope to God nobody finds me like this. I breathe in deeply and mentally prepare for what I’m about to do: I’m going to learn how to ride a bike.
I am a twenty one year old man, and before this night I have never sat on a bike before. At least, I’ve never sat on a bike that wasn’t attached to the floor and designed for exercise. That may seem ridiculous, but it’s true. During my childhood, there was no need to learn how to ride a bike. All my friends were only a couple of doors down, our street the social hang out. There was nowhere I wanted to go that my feet couldn’t get me to in 30 seconds. Of course, one day that changed. I moved and I grew up. My world grew, and was no longer limited to the Stacey’s house down the block, or the big tree one road over. There were malls, and movie theatres, and friends’ houses with pools, all miles away. A bike would’ve been the perfect means of transportation, but it was too late. I was twelve years old, and riding around with training wheels would’ve been humiliating. So I walked everywhere, taking the ribbing from my friends, and tried not to think too much about it.
And I haven’t thought too much about it, until tonight. I borrowed the bike from my cousin, not telling him that I intended to learn to ride for the first time, and that the odds that I was simply going to roll out into the street were pretty good. He assumed that I was actually going to go somewhere on it, and asked me if I had a lock. I lied and told him I did, again not telling him that I would be lucky if the bike carried me a foot. The bike is a hideous shade of yellow, the middle over taken by rust that is slowly starting to creep out to both ends. The numbers on the gears were worn away, I hated it at first sight, but took comfort that there wasn’t much I could do to hurt this piece of garbage. It was also very low, which seemed like a good idea, since it would make my inevitable trips to the ground less drawn out.
I wait for the next car to pass, and then begin. I put my right foot on the right pedal. The bike wobbles, but stays up. So far, so good. I lift my left foot and immediately fall to the ground. I pick myself up, trying again. This time I won’t be so bold as to try for the pedals. I raise my right foot an inch off the grass, breathe deeply, and raise my left foot. The bike tips over, but I’m prepared, stomping my foot down. Unfortunately, the back wheel slips in some mud and I immediately fall to the ground.
I keep this up for about 20 minutes, without any success in reaching my rock bottom goals. Although I’m becoming increasingly frustrated, I’m not surprised. Balance and coordination has always been a moving target for me. I come in just under 6 feet 4 inches, and spent most of my teenage years waking up to find I had sprouted up again. Finding my balance in everyday life was never completely easy, and finding my balance on a half inch of rubber seems impossible.
I fall once again, this time into a pine needle. I pick needles out of my sweater, happy for the break from yellow monster, and its seat that has lost most of its cushioning a long time ago. I have to admit, it’s beginning to look slightly hopeless. On a list of people most likely to successfully learn to ride a bike, I would probably fall somewhere at the bottom, just edging out a well trained cat. So why do it? Why waste a night bruising my leg and scratching my arm to gain nothing but the stares of complete strangers as they drive past? Maybe because I don’t like the idea of not trying something because I think I’m too old. As I age, things are going to change, and they’re going to keep changing. Will I shun the new because I will be embarrassed to learn what someone half my age can do with ease? Will I stay set in my archaic ways while everyone around me excels? Will I spend all my time walking to my friends’ pool when I could’ve been there long ago? Will I do all this just to save myself some embarrassment? I hope not, but it’s hard not to argue that I already started on that part early.
I get on the bike once again, and slowly lift my feet off the ground. This time I don’t fall, I just tilt to the left. I take a breath, straightening myself up. I’m kind of doing it! I’m not actually riding a bike, but I am sitting on one, which is a big step. In my excitement I put my feet down. I lifted my feet again, hoping it wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t, I had found my balance on a half inch of rubber. I dared myself to put my put my feet on the pedals, and to slowly start pumping. I move forward, the grass breaking under my wheels. I am exhilarated. I’m not sure what to do, so I start hitting the little bell on the handle. It lets off a couple of weak tinkles and breaks off, landing beside the bike. I turn to look at, and immediately fall to the ground.
This time I don’t care that I’ve landed on my already bruised leg, or that the sorry hunk of metal is once again lying on the ground. I rode a bike. Even thought it took my twenty one years, and I didn’t even go a foot, I road a bike. I pick it up, smiling as I walk it home. I will never be a cyclist, never enter a bike race, and probably will never even ride a bike down to the corner store. But that was never the point. The point is that I did something that I was sure I could never do.