As I unknowingly submerse myself in guilt and pain, the first instinct I have is to ignore my feelings, after all, what are feelings besides thoughts I don't like, and that can't mean much. “Quit talking to your friends and get back on your bike!” my father shouts, I can’t believe how much of a jerk he really is, and it's almost like he knows manipulating my social identity would irritate me to a point which I can't fathom. Why would anyone ask their child to stop socializing, it's a natural human instinct to interact create a feeling of the people in your surroundings. Then again, I'm obligated to follow my orders like a solider. “Solider, why are you so unhappy? Sir, you had me run through the obstacle field blindfolded today, while the other soldiers had no similar treatment. Solider, unless you do what I order you, receiving shelter from this army is not permitted.” This type of schnanngans is how I’ve trained, the first time I started racing at the track was extremely enjoyable, stress and most importantly stressor free. It wasn't until my potential was figured out that anyone demanded or expected tangible progress out of me. Second place my first time racing; I don't know too many people who were the first loser at anything they tried. Let this manifest inside of your sub conscious endeavor, you've been abandoned directly in the middle of the desert, no food, water shelter, for god sakes no clothes. You scream with intent for help, and your voice is echoed back. It scares you, hearing the sound of your voice, you know it's real, and it's the only assist you've been provided. In panic, you pretend this voice doesn't belong, it has no purpose, and most importantly you feel it isn't yours. It's been said the ones who speak the truth are beings who we despise the most.


All of rhinoceros was perched upon my quivering shoulders, the best part of this; all animals have to do their business somewhere. My subconscious smelled like a zoo trainer who accidentally fell into the monkey houses disposals, and managed to make his way into a highly sun intensive area and permanently bake his fortune into the hallow pours of tender aging skin. I'm living proof that pretending and ignoring your tribulations is everything except what's expected of you. When you watch someone who is given the title as your father, deliberately dance around his daily tasks and avoids telling what's truly on his mind, you follow along and play this truth defying game. I align myself into the gate, preciously paying close attention for my habitual patterns, and the problematic issues presented. Have you ever questioned if you were sick, I think I might be sick I ask myself, it's quite possible I’ve caught what was going around the halls last week at school. I was always questioning this; some noticeable balance was shockingly out of alignment. The routine beacon of the gate starter vibrates throughout the starting hill, “Ok riders lets set em' up, riders ready watch the gate, deah deeahu doooa dooeeeaahhh” the last parts my favorite, I follow through with my gate start around the first beep, and I'm still not smashing the gate down. I hate having dead weight atop my thoughts. It makes any thought intensive task twice of what it’s worth. Any sane youthful being would try to avoid contact with the source of their problems in a situation like mine, and find a new sport which dad couldn't stir his two cents into. Bicycle Motocross was infected into all the small and undermining cells that composed my structure. The astonishment that's emitted through the actions I take on the bike. It's hard to believe anyone could take flight holding on to small sized, tacky, sweat repelling pair of grips, actively ignore the twenty eight feet of ground your now taking flight over, emit my persona trough the tilted axis of my back wheel, drop you shoulder as if you pinned down all fifty states on a cork board geography project, and before you reorganized any of this made way, gracefully project your wheels onto solid ground. This feeling couldn't simply stay fair weather, once a Bicycle Motocross racer, always a Bicycle Motocross racer.


Now landing in the year twenty ten, these actions have taken their course. Four years ago, no longer exists in the same shape it once took. My father has quit giving his support; I no longer have to deal with his degrading remarks on the track. Restricting my social being is stained into my reputation, I'm still known as the kid who avoids conversation or exchanging verbal greetings with his friends. It seems as though I've played the greatest, seemingly death defying game of chicken with my internal time clock. As I approach the end of my high school career, mother time has her foot mashed against the gleaming square gas pedal of nature, and as I gently approach the entity of mother time, all of my thoughts seem to make complete sanity. I've been placed under circumstances many others have failed to experience, one greatly unique and indifferent from what is considered to be “normal.” One that's fulfilled the destiny I've projected. My ambitions of making an identity for myself through my bicycle still burn as feverishly as they once did, and with a greater knowledge then once before, Now excuse free, “I can only live for the destiny my wake has stirred, my thoughts have constructed one of the greatest guides known, now as my actions ignite the fuel of this engine, I'll make way into the oceans of eternity.”