I remember riding my bike that one summer day with my big brother Mark. We were riding side by side “Chips” style when it started. We’d been casually gliding down a hill around the corner from my house. We were probably on our way to a pick-up baseball game at a friend’s house. Maybe I was 10 and he was 12 – who can remember. What I do remember is that we were gliding down a hill when I decided I wasn’t going fast enough. I wanted to push it a little; you know, drop the hammer. So I started to peddle downhill. Mark, who has always been more of a break down hill type of guy, began to immediately let me know his unease with my sudden burst of peddling fury. As I began pulling past him down the hill I heard his voice trail off as I blew past, and continued down the hill “Chris, you don’t peddle downhill, you BREAK downhill”. I could barely make out the last few words, but I got the gist. I didn’t care, I wanted to peddle. By now I was hunched over, leaning into the wind which was making my eyes tear. I was peddling as hard as I could downhill. It felt amazing; I was pushing myself to the limit. It felt right, it felt comfortable; I was following my bliss, finding my voice, and peddling downhill.