If only I had remember to feed the chickens before I left on my joy ride.
Because my dad quickly forgot about scolding me for starving our income,
and was now solely focused on this bike I was riding up to him.

But surprisingly he wasn't mad or angry,
instead he put his arm around my shoulder and said
it was time that I knew the past and what this bike meant to our family.
And for once my 9 year old curiosity had actually helped me and not hurt me.

My dad's story was long, so my short attention span quickly wandered off
and to this day I can only recall the last few sentence of that speech
before he whacked me on the head for not feeding the chickens.

"Grandpa let his family down by pursuing a career in cycling.
After he broke his leg it was just me and grandma keeping this farm afloat.
So, don't get any crazy ideas; this farm needs a successor."

Good thing I didn't know what the word "Successor" meant,
because I was back on that bike every chance I could get
as it was my only source of entertainment, freedom, and enjoyment.
Looking back now, my dad could have discouraged me all he wanted,
but I had something he didn't; Grandpa's love and passion for cycling.

I rode that rusty old bike to school everyday, a 20 mile round-trip ride.
And everyday I would challenge myself to go faster so I could wake up later.
I had created my own personal time trial without even knowing it.
At first I did it because it was fun but that all changed on May 13, 2006.

Growing up in Kansas there is one event every year that gets everyone excited,
well besides the usual holidays, it's was the beginning of summer festival.
Food, games, prizes, and now that I was 16... good looking girls.
The perfect combination got even better this year as the festival
had organized a small bike race to kick off the event.

Determined to impress my high school crush at the time and to receive kisses from the podium girls, there was no hesitation that I would be in this race.
When the day of the race came I snuck off to the festival with my Schwinn.
Just over 50 people entered the race, all of which made my rusty bike
look like it belonged in a junkyard; and not going to lie, it probably did.

I don't remember much from my first race except the fact I was the
first rider dropped from the peloton, just 3 miles into the 25 mile race.
I was crushed. My confidence was gone and I almost took my dad's advice
to give up on cycling to focus on taking up the family farm.

But the next day the front cover on newspaper had an article about the race
including a picture of the winner holding his arm high in the air celebrating.
And all I could think about was how great it would have been if that was me.
So, I cut out the picture and taped it on my wall near my bed as a reminder of what could have been, and what I was striving to achieve.