4.6

People talk about life flashing before them, and I'm envious. I tend to have a very different reaction.
I remember the first time I fell off my new bike. I was just getting back into riding after having taken a fifteen year hiatus, having given up biking after turning ten partially from outgrowing the bike and partially from outgrowing the "cool" factor of pedaling places. Now twenty five, I was re-entering the infancy of my biking skill.
My parents own a fifteen acre farm with a little set of hills rolling down to a creek, along which they have planted a forest of saplings. The driveway is loose gravel and leads down to the road at the steepest incline on the property, and the house is up on the hill overlooking it all. Now, I had chosen the furthest ring around as my route: down the driveway--cut right and along the road--swing up the creek and wind through the forest of small trees--along the fencerow and over the hills--down the driveway again. All told, the route is a fifth of a mile. I could do the entire loop in less than two minutes.
I was very careful on the gravel that scoots out from under the tires. I was very careful running around the trees that reach out and cut my face. But along the road there's a long, low straightaway that begs to be barreled down at top speed. At the turn, I was not very careful. Evening, dew, and madness combined in the failing light to put me in a manic leaning turn that suddenly gave way from under me. The bike continued straight for a heartbeat, leaning even further to the ground, until the pedal dug straight into the dirt, halting the machine entirely. My knee hit the ground first, rolling me over the bike, onto it, and past, my left leg working its way under the falling frame as I went.
My life did not flash before me. I did not see everything in slow motion. I did not have a long moment of self-realization as I approached maximum pain. I just blacked out. One moment, I was flying along, the next, my leg was twisted up with the front shifter and the bike was underneath me. I freaked. I laid my head down again and thought "well, this is the end." That scared me, actually. More than falling off the bike, I was scared that my first fall would be my last, that I might give up on my favorite part of biking (the thirty-mile-an-hour fall down a steep hill with the wind at your back, pedaling madly to gain precious momentum to fly up the next hill and do the whole thing again) just because I was terrified of this moment.
I lept up.
I dragged the bike under me and jammed down on the pedal, but the bike didn't move. In fact, the pedal didn't want to turn under my foot, but I was pinwheeling madly trying to go forward. The back wheel had come away from its bracket and was floating loosely held only by the chain. I feel like this moment is a metaphor for my entire life. Do everything right, run an A+ operation, but when you get knocked down once the whole machinery falls into pieces. Of course, I was able to reattach the wheel and tighten it down again, but I couldn't help but think about my utter conviction while on the ground that I must get up and bike again immediately or I would lose the will to do so--and the bike said no.