Flying

Photo by Roland Larsson on Unsplash

The  sun rose over the top of the hill, illuminating the long, steep road before him. A gentle breeze brushed through his hair as he gripped the handle bar on his bike. He rocked slowly back and forth, psyching himself up for the moment.

For luck, he squeezed the brakes. First the front and then the back, making sure they were both working. He grinned, his heart racing against his chest. He glanced around the quiet street and letting out an early morning cheer, he leapt into action.

The wind tore at his clothes, cold air rushing into his lungs and tears of joy streaming down his face. He pedalled harder, faster the tires whirring madly. He grinned so wide that his face ached. He lifted his hands off the handlebar, balancing perfectly with his legs. The wind caught him, he was flying, soaring. He was free.

The dent in my bumper was not.

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