A Vicious Cycle

       The one at the gym I mean. Of all the machines, I hate this one the most. Here's why.
My hatred began at the tender young age of 6 when I wanted to be cool like the other kids and do tricks on my bike. In order to do this, I had to learn how to ride it without those damn training wheels. Like a normal kid might, I asked my dad to teach me. If only I had known how foolish this was.
       My father's idea of learning to do things is to charge right into them head first and take on something difficult right away so you can learn as you go. His idea was that the incline of a hill would provide the speed I would need to learn how to peddle without having to create my own momentum. In theory it actually seems like it might work, and it may have in practice as well if it weren't for one crucial variable.
The grass.
       See, if the hill had been just dirt or had thinner grass, I would have been okay until the bottom. The grass, however, was the thick, luxurious Kentucky bluegrass. This particular grass is optimal for rolling down such a hill as the one across the street from my house at my elementary school because it's squishy and sort of cradles you all the way down.
        Dad set me up with my knee and elbow pads and my helmet on my bike with no training wheels at the top of this hill and pushed. I was so ready for this to work like a dream. I thought I would take to this like a duck to water. After all, in my six-year-old brain the logic seemed pretty sound. I peddled as hard and fast as my little legs would go. About halfway through the hill the wheels stuck for just a second and I was dislodged. Then my faithful steed turned on me and fell down over me. We rolled down the hill together, me and my dear bike, though in a much more painful way than I intended.
         I eventually recovered and learned and rode my bike around and did tricks like I wanted. We later moved to Arizona where I rode my bike around dangerously in the scorching weather. Once I was old enough to go without my mom, my friend Morgan and I would ride to the park around the corner. One day we left my bike home and I rode handlebars to the park. On the way home disaster struck. Morgan decided to ride over the gravel and I somehow landed right heel first on the sizzling stones. Stones that were apparently, sharp. We rode back home quickly, blood oozing from my heel.
          And now the cycling machine is all that stands between me and having the thighs I want.

Monster.