By Frank James
Billy pedaled, huffing, “I hate cycling.” He needed to hurry home for his feeble grandmother.
He cornered a hamlet of trees. At the base of Monster Hill, he grunted, attacking the slope. A tractor passed him. Billy hit a wall half-way. He cranked, rolling backward. His grandmother flashed through his mind.
“No!” He thrust feet downward. He visualized reaching the summit.
Cows mooed, ambling uphill.
“If they can, I can.” He stomped into the final climb. Slipping over the crest, he coasted downhill. “Yes!”
At the bottom, the farmer clapped. “You didn’t beat the hill; you experienced a moment of truth.”
Oh, that’s nice.