It was a beautiful summer day, and Foley’s Hill beckoned. There at the the end of our street was a six block extent of steep downhill road, bottoming out in a kettle, followed by two blocks of rise, and the flat trek of a few blocks into town. It was perfect (and terrifying).

It was a rite of passage. Every kid on the block had to do it. This was my year! Came the day, and I tenuously brought my one-speed to a stop where my street met the long hill. It looked like a mile.

I pushed off. It began well! And then the pedal rotation exceeded my ability to pump, so it was legs spread wide the rest of the way, and straight into the gravel patch at the bottom…

Yeah. That wasn’t a great decision. When I regained consciousness, it took a while to assess the damages. The skinned knees, elbows, shins, forehead, palms and thighs were the cardinal signs of childhood adventure. It was a long, tearful limp home, pushing the bike, then weeks of wearing the badges of failure.

The hill haunted me ‘til the last week of vacation. But then, in my last heroic try, I braved it, beat it and beamed!

Still, whenever I encounter that (or any) “long hill,” driving, riding or walking, I slow down a little as I break a sweat and very carefully check to make sure nothing gets out of hand. My history is with me still.

– J. R. StJohn