It was a cool, early fall night, my dad loaded a variety of tools and my mountain bike in our white Ford escort. I climbed in and didn't really know where we were going. We turned away from home, went down the long sloping road that we lived on, and turned right onto the next street. We took a few more turns and wound up at our local high school where we stopped and gazed around. There wasn't anyone around, no one was using the field or track and there wasn't any one working, so we unpacked my mountain bike.
My bike was black, with black wheels with silver rims, training wheels and the handle bars went up to the middle of my chest. The bike had big long rubber grips that had little grooves so your hand could get grip. My hands were small so the grips were too big for my hands, but that was me.
I was a small kid, skinny, with short straight blond hair. I would were whatever came out of my clothes drawer first so I would never match. I would wear shirts that would either have the Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers or some other sports logo on it. I looked a lot like my dad, except for me being a third of his size, and the big unkempt mustache he had, other than that he had dark brown hair and always had a weird look on his face. For instance, he had to call my name three times when he was unloading the car. I did that a lot, not pay attention, and that's one thing that's carried over this ten years.
We descended a large grassy hill and we stepped onto a soft rubber like track. There was grass within and...