Ghost Riding
We ride yellow high seated Huffys and burnt orange Mongooses without brakes and matte black Hoffmans with back pegs and blue flamed GTs covered in skateboarding stickers down the sixth street hill. Bones whoops like a fire engine as we gain speed. Vibrations slither through my stomach, twisting in my chest, and lurch out my throat in a long arcing cry. My body cuts a clean steak through the air. My pulsating heart drums in my ears. Jarod bails first, leaping from the back of Abby’s pegs and rolling through someone’s petunias. We jump, one by one, some into dry grass, others hopping straight up and rolling forward on the asphalt. We wipe the blood from our elbows, from our knees, from our chins and race into the middle of the road to watch our bikes sprint. They transform to blurs of color. I’m nervous for the first time. A chain connecting me and my bike starts pulling at my neck, tightening as I watch it sail down the road, uncaptained and free. It’s me flying down the road. It’s me out of control. It’s me as danger watching the possible consequences of my body hurtle unchecked into the world. The Huffy slides into a parked Honda. The Mongoose curves into a gentle pile of itself. The Hoffman is a missile, clearing the intersection and launching into the dry creek beyond. The GT catches a curb and somersaults into a yard. We sprint to our rides, checking the front doors and neighborhood windows for anyone who might have seen and start peddling uphill, ready for another round. “I can’t wait till we get our driving permits next summer,” yells Bones.