It was a perfect afternoon in June to ride the trails of Beacon Hill; staying home would’ve been a crime. The sun beamed down without a cloud in the distance, reflecting its rays off my vibrant red and glistening silver Marin Bobcat Trail 4. But after two exhilarating hours of ripping corners and soaring over jumps, disaster struck. My chain snapped and fell to the ground. My session was over. This setback, though, didn’t diminish its value; I had faced broken chains before. I just needed to fix it again. Inspecting it closely, I noticed other flaws in its mechanics, proof of repeated crashes. That afternoon, I spent hours fine-tuning and testing each component.
As I dismantled the bike down to its frame, I realized that every piece represents an aspect of who I am. Brakes give control to slow down when moving too fast, a control that I’ve learned to apply to my own life. For almost eight years I have swum for a highly competitive team. Being in the water is a gift of peace and clarity where I can forget everything and only focus on the movements of my body. But I found myself relentlessly pushing to the point of losing my passion and love for the sport. Swimming no longer seemed as if I was free in space; instead, it felt more like I was locked away in 25 yards of pain.
This left me miserable, even causing me to miss practices. I decided to take a step back and slow down, balancing my life with what makes me happy: the outdoors. Without brakes, I lose control of my ride and crash. I slowly regained my love for swimming and came back stronger than before, hitting personal records in my 50 freestyle, 100 freestyle, and 100 fly.
Moving the bike forward demands continuous pedaling, or it goes nowhere. My love for the outdoors acts as my pedals, pushing me toward new goals, including a future career immersed in nature. Whether hiking through woods around the Pacific Northwest, riding the trails of Beacon Hill, or fishing the open waters of the Spokane River, being outside compels me. There is something magical about the wind slicing through the trees, making a swooshing noise as I trek. How my tires grip the ground after landing a massive jump, leaving their tread imprinted in the dirt. Or the adrenaline rush I get from fishing, especially when I land a trophy trout. Like pedals, passions may change over time, but their purpose and drive remain constant.
My bike is held together by a solid frame, serving as its backbone and keeping everything stable and cohesively functioning. Similarly, the relationships I share with my family form the framework of my life. Without them, like the bike, I wouldn’t be complete. When I think of my family, I remember the red brick house my great-grandfather built on Moses Lake. Grandpa Uppie was the anchor of our family, and that red house was our foundation. Whether everyone wanted to or not, we spent every holiday and family gathering at his home, ultimately teaching me the value of community and empowering me to face new challenges with confidence.
With the final piece in place, my bike was whole again. The repaired chain, tuned brakes, and sturdy frame all came together, ready for the next adventure. The same bike that had carried me along countless trails, climbs, and descents was ready once more. At that moment, I knew it wasn’t just about fixing what was broken; it was about appreciating how each part contributes to the ride ahead. Now, as I look toward college, I’m eager to see how my bike will evolve and what new trails it will take me on during this next chapter of my life.