The Long Hill

My mom was overly cautious. She always yelled after me to be safe while riding my bike. "Watch out for that long hill, son!" That was always her final warning as I rode away. I always heard her, but I never really listened. On my bike, I was free. I knew she really didn't want me on the hill, but, it never failed, everyday I found myself standing at the top of the hill, straddling my Mongoose 21-speed. I went to it 6 or 7 times before my first attempt down. Each of those times, I chickened out before I could push myself over the edge. I remember the first time I went over the edge, though. I was nervous and scared. I pulled my hand off of the front brake, just in case I panicked. I didn't want to go over the handle bars because I pulled the front brake.

I didn't pedal. I just let gravity pull me down. I started going faster and faster. It scared me too much, so I pulled hard on the back brake and eased over to the grass so I could get off. I let the fear of what could happen stop me from going through with it and ended the ride too quickly. I walked my bike up the hill, got back on, looked behind me at the hill and then turned around and went home discouraged and ashamed of what I had done.

But, like before, I kept going back. It took me another two weeks before gathering the courage to try again. This time, I didn't ease into it, afraid that I would lose my resolve again like last time. But, in my haste, I forgot about the front brake. I started going down too fast, and went to hit the brake and tapped the front brake first. The front tire locked up and almost tipped the bike up in the air, but I let go quickly and hit the back brake. Again, I made it to the side before the end of the hill. Again, I walked my bike back up the hill. Again, I felt discouraged. Again, I went home unaccomplished.

However, day after day, I found myself staring down this long hill. This adversary of mine that I could not defeat, and, day after day, I went home without trying to ride the hill to the bottom. A month after my previous attempt, I found myself, unthinkingly, riding to the infamous hill. When I realized my destination, I gritted my teeth and vowed myself I wouldn't back out this time. I threw caution to the wind and went sailing over the edge and down the hill. The exhilaration of it thrilled me! The excitement that came along with this ride, fueled by adrenaline was incredible! It was like no other feeling I had known before. I finally realized what I had been missing out on! Suddenly, though, something on my left caught my attention. It flew past my eyes, so I turned my eyes back to the road down the hill. I saw the bottom of it! I was almost there! I was finally going to make it! Then, the turn at the end of the hill grabbed my attention. Panic overtook me. I had to slow down! I wasn't going to make that turn! I grabbed for the brakes, but I caught the front brake first. The front tire seized up and flipped me over the handle bars. I rolled down the hill, hearing the sickening crunches coming from my body as my bones broke. Finally I came to rest at the bottom of the hill with my bike laying on top of my broken body.

Luckily for me, my dad was driving past on his way home from work. He saw me laying on the ground, broken, and stopped. He ran over towards me from his truck. In my semi-conscious state, I knew that he would be upset with me. I knew he would be made that I tried to pull such a stupid stunt, but I heard nothing from him. Instead, he picked me up in his strong arms and sat me in his truck. He ran back and threw my bike in the bed and sped to the hospital. The doctors there were upset with him that he drove me himself instead of calling an ambulance, but he didn't care. He could hardly stand seeing me in that state for the 10 minute trip. There was no way he could handle just sitting with me until the ambulance got there unable to do anything.

The extent of my injuries were far deeper than physical. The broken leg, collar bone, wrist, fractured ribs, split head, and hundreds of bruises would all heal with rest. The true injuries wouldn't show up until later.

I took my time and healed. I had to get a new bike, too. My other was ruined. It was unable to be fixed and ridden again. I even waited several months after the doctors said it was physically okay for me to ride, to start riding again. After I did, I soon found myself returning to the cursed hill. It was the flame to my moth. I was drawn to it, to its allure and its frustration. My first trip back, was just to see it again. A scouting mission, if you will. It looked even more terrifying than before. I quickly turned around and went home.

The next time out there, I once again found myself on the edge. I took my foot off the pedal to steady myself, but as I did, my shoelace caught on the pedal and I fell over. My bike crashed down on top of my leg. I pushed the bike off of me and got up. My leg was bleeding and my bike was scratched up, but I got back on and rode home with pain shooting through my leg the whole time. At home, I examined my bike. The scratches had made it lose the gleam of a new bike. It was no longer perfect, but I decided a few scratches wasn't worth getting rid of a bike over. I could still ride it.

So, everyday for months I found myself staring down the hill. I had seen other people fly past me and go right down without any problems, but I couldn't seem to do that. I wanted to so bad. I wanted to make it down the hill and turn the corner. I had heard what it was like on the other side of the turn, but I wanted to know what it looked like myself. That, more than anything, kept drawing me back to that wretched hill.

After months of staring down the hill and watching people go past me, I decided I should try again. So, I did. I took off down the hill, determined to make it to the bottom and turn the corner. As I sped down the hill, I spotted a rock in the middle of the road. I swerved to the left to avoid it, but at the speed I was traveling, I couldn't control the bike. I went off the road and into the ditch. My bike hit the far wall of the ditch, bending the tire and pushing the front of the frame back. After it hit the wall, I fell off into the tall grass. I was unhurt, save a couple bruises that would heal quickly, but, once again, my bike was beyond repair. I carried it back up the hill and home.

Soon after, I got another new bike, and, soon after, I found myself staring down the hill. The emotional injuries of my two falls plague my mind. Every time I stand at the top of the hill, the memories of the falls replay in my mind and I back away and go home.

So, here I am, straddling my third bike as I watch my friends go over the edge without hesitation. Some make it to the bottom and some don't. Those that make it to the bottom turn the corner and those that don't make the bottom come back and try again. As I watch friend after friend fly down the long hill, I can't help but think back to the first attempt I made. I backed off, afraid of what could happen, even though that was probably the most ready I was to make the trip down the hill. I don't know if I would have made the corner and been okay, but I can't help but wonder about it. I want so bad to push myself over the edge and go down, but I'm so afraid of wrecking again that I freeze...



God forgives. God redeems. God loves. It doesn't matter if you've messed up before or not, God still loves. It doesn't matter if it's your first "bike" or your tenth. Don't let that be a hindrance. I'm trying not to...