The human people all want the same thing; they want to be what they weren't meant to be. We want to live forever, we want to swim like fish, and we want to fly. Humans have been trying to recreate these phenomenons with little luck.

For me, bombing Rist Canyon, aiming at a curve while the outside edges are lined with a wall of rock, and just barely hanging on is the closest feeling I have to flying.

We all do the same thing; tighter tuck, check the speedo, drop your head. There it is, 55mph. My thoughts are now overtaken by another voice. That voice that used to tell me to skate right at an opponent and just hope I don’t hit my head, or my knee, or my back in the wrong way. That same voice that these days tells me to shoot the gap in the last lap and sprint for 10^th instead of settling for 12^th. 

 Here comes the turn grab the brake, no too much. "Let it go, let it go!" Why won’t my fingers listen to the little voice on my shoulder? He keeps coaching me in my ear, “you can go faster, you can get closer to that feeling that the ‘Big Guy’ never wanted you to have. Listen to me, I’ll take you there.”  And I do listen and the feeling of flying takes me. I rail the turn, the rear tire skips on a tiny pebble, but I’m good I’m already 100 feet past it. There’s the voice again “Forget about that, this section is even faster.” No tight corners, just fast flowing bliss. My tires rub back and forth across my lane, not because I fear the oncoming traffic that I can clearly see is not present, but because keeping this in one lane makes it that much more challenging. That much more divine. I maintain all of my speed through the curves. I sit back on the saddle and readjust for what’s next.

Another turn coming up, this time the voice is screaming as I squeeze those little paddles of carbon beneath my fingers. I give in, I let go, I grab again, I let go. Screw it, I switch my hand positions. Can’t get at the brakes now. I can make this. “Yes you can make this, swing out… Now cut it!” I take it too wide, I squeeze the brakes, now even the little guy is panicking. Tires scraping the chat on the outside of the lane. I regain my balance and I’m back on to the road.

Last two turns, back-to-back and I’m down. Better make these count. Doing 40 down the yellow line. I buzz a school bus, and it gives off a draft slowing me drastically. “Kick it. Come on kid. Kick it.” I jump out of the saddle 3 quick pedal strokes, nope one too many, 2 strokes. Back into the saddle, switch pedals and plant all my weight on that left foot. Two more quick spins. Cut the last turn at mach 1 and it opens up after the apex.

Its over. My brain is functioning again, after not processing anything for the last 15 minutes. What was that voice? Its probably the same voice that was is that reptile that told Adam that he would be way cooler if he ate that funky apple in the garden (if you believe in that sort of thing). These days its known as the voice of competitiveness. I think we all have it. Its just a matter of what your own little devil wants you to achieve. Money, fame, godlyness, it doesn't matter. Every devil is unique as the person who's shoulder they post-up on.