My brother and I used to wake up at 5AM or something. Early as hell – before the sun’d risen. He’d come into my room and wake me up and tell me it’s time. I’d get dressed and he’d pack our backpacks. A water bottle each, granola bars or trail mix, and a gatorade. Yellow. Always yellow. He’d be smiling, even though the night before he’d been up since 2 doing homework. He’s never needed much sleep. Too busy moving and accomplishing. When I was ready we’d carry our bicycles down the steps of our apartment and set out. The clicking of gears adjusting and the chain ringing over the sprockets. The cool early morning air crisp against my cheeks. A few birds chirping. I’ll never forget that. We’d bike through the city, uphill, drifting between traffic and hopping up and down sidewalks. Couple of punk ass kids in jeans going harder than the cyclists in their spandex and aerodynamic helmets. We’d get to Red Rock by sunup, sit down and munch on our granola bars. Then we’d climb. Up and up and up. Sometimes we didn’t make it to the top, it didn’t matter. The journey – never the ending. But when we’d reach the top it felt good. Saw eagles and our tiny bicycles in the distance. Talking about our dad and our future. Laughter. Sometimes somber understanding. Sometimes just silence. The way back was bliss because it was all downhill and we’d stop by a mcdonalds or a pizza place and carb the fuck up. We’d get home and my legs would feel like jelly. Most of the time I could take a nap, but not my brother. He’d be leaving for work or to meet with his girl or doing more homework. Too busy moving and accomplishing.