english paper.

Sweat was dripping down over my eyes and every muscle in my legs feeling as though on fire. I could have been crying and not known it with the sting of salt burning my eyes, and the salty taste evident if I licked my lips. To stare straight ahead was to view a sea of dark grey, with waves in the air rising from the heat. Tilting my head up would put that sea into perspective, a blacktop road headed up at a sharp incline lined with the pale grey of sidewalks. My feet pushed down against the pedals of the bicycle, pushing them along their eternal track. Going round and round, but never getting anywhere. I crossed back and forth across the road in an effort to make this journey easier. I glanced back up at the road, wiped the sweat from my eyes in an effort for the stinging sensation to lessen a little, and continued towards the top of this seemingly endless and steep hill.

It had been about two years since I had ridden a bicycle like this. The last time was when I lived in North Las Vegas right after graduating high school. Riding a bicycle was my livelihood, carrying me five miles to my place of employment, a RadioShack store. It is impossible for me to ride a bicycle without thinking of that trip I made almost every day. The sweat of the ride up that hill was reminiscent of the sweat spent paying rent for a room in a rundown house. There was no purpose to the ride up that hill other than to feel the sweat pouring down my face, the burn of my leg muscles, and the endorphins released by the exertion.

A black sport utility vehicle came over the peak of the hill, and I pushed my legs hard to carry me back over to the right side of the road. It rushed past, high school aged kids pointing and laughing as though driving their father's vehicle made them superior. The burn in my legs only got more painful as I propelled myself closer to the top of the hill. The pain was almost enjoyable though, a cause for pride, though that may have been the endorphins. The constant crossing of the road and the need for alertness of cars travelling on the road pushed all other thoughts out of my head.

A short journey up a hill doesn't seem like much after a childhood of constantly moving around. Even after high school, I eventually moved twice inside a period of six months. From Las Vegas to Missouri, and then from Missouri to South Carolina. Twenty-one years old and nine states, from the north-east, to the south-west, and many places in between. A short bicycle ride up a hill should have meant nothing, but there was a sense of accomplishment in the struggle. The distance travelled or the reasons behind it did not matter there. There was a sense of bliss in having no reason, no destination. Relaxation through complete activity.

My leg muscles began to cramp, and I had to force myself to push through the increasing stiffness, being about three-quarters up the hill. The goal was in sight, and that thought gave me the needed determination to keep pushing those pedals in their circles to propel myself forward. The sweat continued to drip down my face, and I wiped it away again. It was getting difficult to keep my eyes open from the stinging, combined with the wind blowing into my face from the movement. I was unable to tell if the wind was indeed wind, or just the result of movement. My pace slowed, and for the first time on the trip up the hill, I noticed the houses beyond the sidewalks.

They lined the sides of the roads, with trees in between them. Almost every house was a different colour, with many different coloured vehicles, mostly pickup trucks and cars, in front of them. The houses were spaced liberally, the kind of spacing you find in semi-rural areas. A few children ran and played in one of the yards. A man mowed his lawn on a riding lawn mower, riding in wide semi-circles around his front yard. Life went on for everyone around me as though I didn't exist as I pushed myself and my bicycle up the hill.

I brought my eyes back to the road, continuing my seemingly endless back and forth movement. My head tilted up, and I was near the top of the hill. I started pedalling as quickly as I could, with a far more straight course than previously. As I rode over the crest of the hill, I stopped my bike and stood over it. I wiped the sweat from my eyes one last time and looked behind me down at the hill I had conquered through sweat, strength, and determination. My legs burned through every inch of them and I was breathing heavily. Not much time had passed, but it felt as if I had spent an eternity pedalling up that hill.

I rested for a brief moment on top of the hill, and let my thoughts wander. There was no metaphorical journey up the hill, it was exactly as it seemed. A ride from the bottom of a hill to the top. Something done with no goal or purpose. Something done for the sheer joy of doing it. It reminded me of simpler times, when not everything was a step up a set of stairs. When things were done for the experience and the thrill of doing them.

I stared down the opposite side of the hill. I had not thought of what I was going to do once I had gotten to the top. There was no planning past the act of making it to the top. When you get to the top of a hill, there is only one place left to go. I went down the hill at a high speed and was infinite for a brief moment, and everything was right in the world.