Riding a Bike (Descriptive)

        At the time, I hated my mom for taking me there. It was a cool autumn morning and I can still picture myself, eight years old, rolling my first bicycle up the hill somewhere inside Stanford University. I was probably in the most excited state when my mom told me that she would buy me a bicycle for my birthday present. I immediately said yes, but I don't think I ever actually guessed that I would  have to go through the hard process of learning how to ride it first.
         My bike wasn't much of a bike, either. It had a star on the seat, and was overly colorful and all, but it was the only one right for me in terms of size and comfort. Looking at the bike reminds you of Uncle Sam. Honestly, the bike looked like he threw up on it; it had a U.S. flag on the sides, fifty or so stars decorated all over the bicycle. It even had handles with the U.S. flag pattern. You can imagine how ridiculous it must have looked, but I didn't care much. It was a bike, and that was it.
         So anyway, there I was, terrified out of my own, scared mind just because I was about to ride a bike down a hill so low that it was almost flat ground. Now, let us all remember that I was only in first grade, and that it would have been perfectly reasonable to be anxious of riding my first bike. At first, my mom promised that she would hold onto the back of my bike at all times, pushing me onward. It worked pretty well that way. As I was getting a hang of pedaling and balancing myself, the back of my bike started feeling a bit light. I looked back, and sure enough, my mom wasn't there. I barely saw her waving at the top of the hill when about two seconds later I crashed into a tree and flipped over along with my bike.
          Due to the scars of the crash, I sat out and rested on a bench for a few minutes before I started again. My memory tells me that when I complained to my mom, she laughed so badly it was almost actually funny. If I didn't have any of the scars I received from the tree, I would have laughed with her. But because I did, I kept quiet. I ate some snacks, and began again. By the end of the day I crashed into two more trees, ripped through a police line, and got a thorn stuck inside my finger. When I had finally reached my limits, I called my dad to pick us up, because I definitely was not going to go back home on my bike.
           It was a memorable experience, and although my bike was stolen a few months later, I managed to master how to ride the bike on my second day. Now, I can ride the bike one-handed, no-handed, and sitting sideways. The experience from six years ago is helping me today in carrying myself between my house and academies.