Shane sat on the curb, his eyes locked on the of his bike. They were jagged and silver, the rubber worn down to a dull grey. To his father, those wheels were "crutches." To Shane, they were the only things keeping him from the unforgiving bite of the asphalt.
He mounted the seat, his knuckles white against the rubber grips. His father held the back of the saddle, a steadying weight. A High-Pitched Buzz and Training WheelsYoung Sh...
For three seconds, there was only the wind and that sharp, electric hum. Shane wasn't falling. He was cutting through the air, a part of the summer swarm at last. The buzz wasn't a warning anymore; it was a cheer. Shane sat on the curb, his eyes locked on the of his bike
"I don't think the balance is right yet," Shane whispered, though his dad couldn't hear him over the clatter of the toolbox. He mounted the seat, his knuckles white against