When molehills become mountains

This morning, I woke up extremely early in anticipation of the task at hand, riding my bike to school, and I needed plenty of time to prepare. I got my books loaded in my backpack, ate a light breakfast, and hit the road (not literally, at least not yet.) I wheel my little brother’s childhood bike onto the front lawn, and set out anticipating a leisurely jaunt. At first, it was exhilarating feeling the wind blow through my hair as I zoom down the sidewalk outside my neighborhood, diligently watching for cars and children. Feeling that everything is right in the world, birds are chirping, the sun is shining and taking the curves like a champion cyclist, until my euphoria is halted by a mammoth hill that has interrupted my cycling daydream. The top of the hill seemed to be lost in the clouds, and numerous climbers had lost their lives attempting to tackle this monstrosity. There is no other way to get to class on time than over this hill, so over this hill I go. My legs began to burn and each push of the peddle felt like I was riding my bike through quick sand, and I was slowly sinking to my death. Even though I had to get off and walk the last few feet, there is no sense of victory as strong as when I made it to the top, and look down as if off the edge of a cliff, with a sigh of relief. When I finally arrived at campus, I was dripping with sweat and my skirt, which had gotten caught in the gears at one point, was covered in oil. Defeated, I went to class, only to have to do it again on the way home. Luckily, this time, while others would be great on the turn around, my nemesis hill will feel like flying.