A scar, or maybe memory? As we were getting ready to leave for the races, everyone was nervous. My father was nervous because he was competing for a championship and needed the win, my mom was nervous hoping that my dad didn't get in a crash, and my brother was nervous because he didn't get to bring his DS and search for pokemon, and me, well, I was 2 and didn't really have much going on in my head. It was the year that I learned to ride a bike, I rode it everywhere, anytime you saw me, I was on my little green “monkey bike” that still hangs in the garage to this day.

My brother and I had been getting our last-minute jitters out before the 4-hour car drive by having a friendly little competition, a competition that he was to surely win, a bike race. I was 2 and he was 4, so he was going to win, right? Well, that wasn't the case, I'm a sore loser and a very competitive person, so I hate losing. I gave it all the energy I had, and I managed to beat him strictly on endurance “slow and steady wins the race, slow and steady wins the race”, and boy did I celebrate. The truck that was packed high with suitcases and toys, drinks, and food, was my podium, and I jumped around on the tailgate until I couldn't jump anymore, I jumped until, well, until I was falling. My foot slipped out of under me and down I went, face-first into the ground, and then I let out a loud, sharp, painful scream. 

While I sat there crying, blood running down my face, my dad was less sympathetic, he was annoyed that we didn't get on the road sooner, while my mom had me in her arms crying, maybe even more than I was. My parents rushed me to the ER where I had to get stitches along my eyelid, where to this day, I still have a scar, a scar that reminds me to this day on how I beat my older brother… in a bike race.