Whistling a refreshing breeze through my hair, my dad and I travelled our way back home from the school. The spring breeze, scented by numerous vibrant shamrock green pines and pumpkin orange flowers, brushed our faces in and out of the car windows. I whispered to myself, “I’m going to go on a bike ride when I get home.”  

When we arrived home, our three outdoor cats greeted us, anxious for their lunch. After feeding and watering them, I dashed inside and launched my books and book bag onto my bed. Following that, I retrieved the bike from my dad’s garage and announced, “Of course, the tires need to be filled!” Anxiously, I waited and waited for my dad to pressurize the drained black tires. Meanwhile, I went to the refrigerator in my mom’s side of the garage to grab a bottle of water. Nothing was more refreshing than the sting of mineral water on a hot day.

My dad finished refilling the tires for what seemed to be a prolonged period of time. Unfortunately, I soon realized my front tire was not straight with the handle bars. I knew how to solve this issue by talking aloud what my sister had once told me: “Just stand over the wheel; clutch it with your knees.” I spun the handlebar to re-align the two. Finally, I was ready to go on the bike ride.

I leaped onto my sister’s old bicycle, ready to soar. I rode to the end of my long driveway rushedly only to realize our road had been coated in about half an inch of stone. I reassured myself, “This is no big deal; I am on a mountain bike; I will be fine.” Slowly, I started forcing my wheels through the stone, pedaling as hard as my little eleven-year-old legs could handle. I surprisingly found the challenge to be fun. I came to a point of the road that shifted downhill. It immediately became easier to peddle. The fresh stone path crunched under my tires as I flew down the road. I came to a stop sign; fortunately, I was able to stop quickly due to the amount of stone forcing against me. I went to steer left onto Haller Road. Sadly, my front wheel decided differently.

Whilst twisting my handlebars to the left sharply and peddling, randomly, my front wheel continued straight and went out of alignment. I tried to squeeze my brakes. The handlebar disagreed with my action by spinning sideways, so the left handle was pointing at my chest. Locked up in fear, I knew pure unfortunate luck was coming my way. My bike ejected me forward, slamming roughly through the stone, till I came to a halting stop slamming into the wooden box named Little Free Library. I twisted my head several ways to see if anyone was around who could have witnessed my accident. Luckily, nobody was outside. I stood covered in scratches with a bleeding arm. The square pole supporting the box had cut into my arm from pure force. I angrily collected my bike while repeating, “I’m such an idiot.” I walked home with a couple drops of blood following me. 

When I arrived home, I sent my bike flying on the driveway where it fell over, skid, and nearly rammed the garage door. I bit my tongue from the sting of pressing a tissue on the wound. Shadowing past my dad, I made my way to the medicinal cabinet in the restroom. I patched the inch-wide gash with steri-strips, gauze, and medical tape. My lesson was learned with safety precautions since that moment. That little accident is always reminded to me every time I pass the wooden box.