The blazing sun basked soothing warmth against my face as I slept in my wooden bunk bed. I was in great slumber when a loud noise, which sounded like a skirmish between screeching metal, woke me out of my snooze. I was in third grade and nine years old, in the summer of '98, when I found out what it felt like to be a dirt bike's victim of pain.
Jumping out of bed like a grasshopper and throwing the covers onto the floor, I proceeded to get dressed in a blue and white striped T-shirt and an old pair of jeans. I went into the kitchen and grabbed myself a bowl of Cheerios and headed downstairs to get my shoes on. I walked into the messy, old garage and saw my dad lifting weights.
"Hey, Logan, what are you doing? Why don't you come and work out with me?" my dad offered in a generous way.
"Ahh!" I grunted unhappily, "I have better stuff to do."
After putting on my old pair of shoes, I ran off. When I got outside the sun glared down on my face and it was hard to make out what was making all that noise. It turned out that my friend Ben, who lives right next door to me, had just gotten a new dirt bike. The bright light of the sun reflected off of the dirt bike's yellow paint job.
"You like my new dirt bike, Logan?" Ben asked, bragging somewhat about his new toy, "I bet you want to have a go with it?"
"Sure," I said excitedly, "I can't wait!"
Our homes are located right next to the rusty old train tracks. We decided that the tracks would be a great place to test out his new dirt bike.
Ben and I made our way through our backyards with him pushing the shiny new bike up the dirt path to the tracks. I couldn't help but notice all the weeds and flowers growing precociously in the woods that surrounded our houses. The contrast between the lush, floral woods and the drab, barren tracks struck me as unusual.
When we made it up to the train tracks, I got on the black leather seat of the yellow dirt bike and started the engine. This was my first time riding a dirt bike and I was just starting to get the hang of it. I decided to go faster when all of a sudden I accidentally floored the gas throttle on the dirt bike's handle. A sudden rush ran over my body and my heart started to pump a million miles per hour. The bike had gone into a dirt-filled ditch, and I floored it again in my panic for help. I shot up into the air like a spaceship launching up to space. Screaming at the top of my lungs, the dirt bike hit the tracks deflating the back tire. I was thrown off the bike going as fast as a baseball being pitched to home plate. Looking down I saw the dirt and gravel that I was about to eat. My fragile body smacked the ground at full speed. I let out a blood-curdling scream. Luckily my dad heard the sounds of my deathly screams and came running to my rescue.
I have never driven or ridden on a dirt bike since that awful day on the tracks behind my house. Thankfully I was okay. I had a few scratches and was a little shaken up, but my memory of that dreadful day will stay with me for as long as I live. That's why I know I will never drive a dirt bike again.