I'M A TWOWHEELPHILIAC

THERE'S NO DOUBT ABOUT, I love getting around on two wheels.  I was corrupted at a young age.  My red tricycle was the gateway.  I was 3. 

At 4, I got a two-wheeler from my grandfather.  I rounded corners completely wrong.  My scant body gravity pressing hard on the tiny outside wheel. 

At 5, dad's crescent wrench and I mangled the large nuts that secured the trainers.  Intuitively, I knew there was only one way to be truly free.

On two wheels.

On two wheels I flew from the nest.  No need to kick me out.  No way to hold me back.  Just me and the breeze through my hair.

Martha Street was my kingdom.  It was long and steep and curved.

Over to Jamie's.  Down to Cindy's.

Brakes.  No brakes.

Speeding down.

Feeling control.  Losing control.

Losing skin.  Bleeding knees.

None of it mattered.

And when things get serious, and all the world bears down, I get back on those wheels.  Just me and the breeze.

None of it matters.