Column: Brake-fest


I’ve always known I could go over the handle bars. That’s what kept me from really opening things up when heading down hills on my mountain bike.

I imagine crazy hypotheticals such as a brake breaking, a tire coming off or a list of other catastrophes that end up with me flying.

I assume this tentative nature comes from childhood experiences. I think. At this point it’s a matter of me remembering copies of memories so who knows how it really went down. I do know that I used to ride with no one hand, then no hands, because that was the 4th grade flex. I remember riding around town or to the river with friends and getting close enough to rub tires, “on accident.”

I also remember bombing down a hill and the front tire wobbling. I remember the sickening feeling of a loose shoe lace wrapping around the pedal of my Huffy. I remember the chain grabbing the leg of my Carhartts and laying track.

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