I'm a Biker

My fingers grip warm, dusty rubber.
The fresh calluses on my hands feel rough as my fingers curl tightly.
Jerkily, I lift my right foot to the pedal.
My left foot fumbles awkwardly along the ground
Searching for a resting spot.
My eyes lift, burdened.
There’s a push, and suddenly, I’m moving.
My feet circle cautiously as my stomach tightens in anticipation.
A light breeze kisses my cheeks.
Within moments, I’ve reached my destination.
Only eight and a half feet.
Carry the one and that’s eleven years.
Eleven years of elusions
Excuse after excuse until settling upon just the right one.
Two wheel- sized burdens weighted down my shoulders.
I’d gotten used to the feeling.
Inadequacy, differences from the norm just shy of eccentricity.
But what I’d thought was acceptance was really a suppressed hope
Brushed aside in an effort to mend a wound I’d suffered when I was four.
I simply decided that I had had enough.
No more itching, no more suspense.
It was time to join the ranks of my classmates, albeit more than a decade late.
But I didn’t care.
It was time to take off those training wheels and really fly.
It was time to ride a bike.





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