May 13th 2007, I was in the second grade, eight years old. It was Mothersday; its was sunny the type of sun that tickled your skin. The purple crocuses and tulips of every color welcomed the warmth opening as far as the petals would allow. We had just arrived home from church, I hustled up the stairs to change out of my little pink dress, it was a peachy pink, floor length, with a small amount of beading around the neckline. I was quite the tomboy at the age of eight. My hair was cut off, short, not even a cute, like a boy short. Since it was such a beautiful day, father proposed we go for a bike ride. My father against my will, had taken my training wheels. I was not happy about it.

I stomped out to the barn in protest, demanding my father put the training wheels back on my perfect bike; with the white frame, a white wicker basket, with plastic hot pink daisies, and not forgetting the streamers that cascaded off the handle bars.  Despite my anger, my mother still made me go one the bike ride. We headed out of our driveway, and made our way to the sidewalk. I just can’t get the hang of this bike riding thing. I'm frustrated with the rest of my family who rode their bikes with ease. However, my little brother, Marshall still was allowed his training wheels. Around the turns and bends, up and down the hills my family rode with ease. “Come on Kierstin, we’re gonna leave you!” They teased.

Marshall kept taunting me he'd turn his head, just to look back to scrunch up his face and stick his tongue out, as he simply glided down the sidewalk. So in spite I’d try to catch up. I was starting to get a hang of riding. We started to climb the hill. At my age the hill was not only dauntingly large, it was also steep. The whole family stopped at the top of the hill to regroup.

I decided I had mastered riding a bike. So naturally with sibling rivalry, I challenge my brother to a bike race.

“Marshall, I bet that you can’t even beat me down da hill!” I challenged

“Bet I can!” he protested

“Kierstin not a good idea.” my mother warned.

Ignoring her advice, and with much concentration I bite down on my bottom lip, like I always have. (My father has told me many times not to bite my lip, but what does he know.)

“Ready.”

“Set.”

“Go!” I chanted

I zoomed off, along with Marshall. The farther down the hill I got the faster the bike went, I started to panic, there is a big turn on the end of the hill. What do I do? What can I do? Closer, closer, closer I’m coming to the end. I began the turn, thinking I might make it. The handlebars started shaking, I tried turning. when the turn started to get out of control, I squeeze the brakes. Without realizing I flew over the handlebars! Face down on the asphalt, there’s no pain at first. I first taste the iron flavored blood, it fills my mouth, then I felt the blood dripping from my face, and a sting that rushed all over my body. I can't breathe my chest is tight, unable to gulp down the air.

My parents rushed over to me. Asking me if I were okay. My parents rushed me home to repair the damage.  I ended up just fine, besides the road rash that was on my face, my forearms and knees, and a bad cut on the inside of my lip from biting it.

I remember this moment in my life, by the little scar on the inside of my lip, that is just slightly raised, just enough so that I find myself biting it in times of concentration. A little reminder that not every moment in life has to be a competition.