I am a biker. But what does that really mean? Who am I? Should I be defined by my mode of transportation? I’m not sure anymore.

I’ve begun to wonder if I should follow the rules of the road or the rules of the feet.

I didn’t choose the bike life, the bike life chose me. But look at what I have become. What kind of man cuts through passengers and zooms in front of cars? A man who breaks the rules, or never had any rules to begin with. A road-sinner. A man who laughs maniacally as he pushes pedestrians into the bushes, and rings his bell when people block him from biking through a red light. A man who will stop for nothing and no one. A man who must keep moving.

I look into the mirrors attached to my handlebars and wonder if I am a monster.

By running people down on the sidewalks, I believed I was running down my problems. I was a god. Not a car, nor a pedestrian, but an all powerful biker.

I am disappointed in the person I have become. I grew to love the rush. I wouldn’t, nay, I couldn’t stop the madness.

People are quick to judge me, but they don’t understand the struggles I am faced with everyday. They don’t understand that my passion has become my curse.

I am haunted by the people I have hurt. I am no monster, but a man led astray, a man who chose to bike down the wrong path. A man who was seduced by the glitz and glamor of fancy tires, neon vests, and light up helmets. I didn’t know they were so cars could see me in the dark, I just thought they were cool.

I need help.

I must find a new path. No, not a bike path: my own path.

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