“Whoever loses is walking home”.
My younger brother glared at me with his deep blue eyes as I propped the only bike up. We were only kids but were at war at heart.
“3, 2, 1, Gooo!”
As my feet struggled for grip in the soft dusty wood chippings my brother had already gained a stried. Looking at my brother ahead of me filled me with rage and disappointment fueling me to push on. With each stride I was gaining on him as if my life depended on it. Glancing at my younger brother’s face I also recognised the same rage and determination as the finish line was drawing closer and closer.
When I cycled home I felt powerful, filled with emotions that poisoned my brain. Nothing had given me this rush feeling of victory before hitting me like a drug. Although this was 30 years ago we are in conflict with each other seeing every opportunity as a race to win against one another.