Hanging with the Big Boys (1)

We lived in a really big farmhouse when I was a little girl, set back from the road, really big backyard, but still really close to our next door neighbors. I think I suffered from some brain disorder because living in such an untamed land requires clothes other than frilly skirts, little heels, and wispy blouses.
Living on such a lot with a fancy for girly clothes was not a very bright thing to do, but I’d tell my parents that I didn’t care and run off to play with my three older brothers, and all the neighbor boys. Just because I wore girly clothes didn’t mean I didn’t like having fun, doing some what boyish things.
One autumn day, we all had a race down the street on our bikes, and I was pedaling my periwinkle trike as fast as I could, legs pumping, feet flying. The finish line was around the corner at the end, a very sharp turn, now that I think about it. But I wasn’t thinking about that, but of the wind whipping through my hair, nipping my nose, and the energy pulsing through my blood.

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