It’s 4:00 on a Friday afternoon and the sun is blazing. Thirty one degrees outside and I’ve got nothing but time. No homework and my parents aren’t home. The ice cream truck is about to round the corner. A loonie and four quarters – I am loaded.
My hands are sticky, my shirt is stained, but my attention is elsewhere. I stare at the bright red stop sign standing at the end of my street. It’s calling me. How fast can I bike to that stop sign and back? This is going to be grand. Time me.
I’m pedaling as fast as I can. My hair is whipping my face. I’m yelling at the top of my lungs. I’m flying. I swear I’ve got wings.
Fourty-five seconds. It must be some kind of record. I’m going to compete in the Olympics when I grow up. You try. I’ll time you. Ready. Go.
