Racing bikes down steep hills, the flood of adrenaline plunges through my veins is a raging river after a good rainstorm. The handbrake is right under my right fingertips, but I do not squeeze them. My heart pounding in my chest is boulder trying to shape-shift into a statue. The wind whips my face and at this catapulting speed, I feel my helmet slightly shift from my sweaty forehead. As if on cue, my palms begin to sweat; I try to flick the thought away to get them to stop, but they will not. The association has already been made, the thought already been thunk. I do not pedal, but cruise while standing up. I take my hands of the handlebars gently, slowly, and try to balance with my arms out in a T. Pink and yellow helmet strap cuts into my chin. I see an approaching car and I unquestioningly squeeze that brake and pull to the side of the street. Childhood, killing time, sour gummy candy, potato chips, and soda. Carefree summer days that seem so rare when I think back on them. I eventually got to the age where I was over Summer Camps. They were mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. Thunderbolt, lightning bolt on the side of the helmet. My mouth is dry and thirsty garden patch in the dead heat of summer. I smell of sweat as I dismount my bike, sweat well-earned, sticky and stale. My bike chain clicks as I walk my bike over to the other side of the road. Where my friends are. Sitting, unimpressed. My daredevil antics, all for nothing.