“Kick … and push … and coast.” The beats of Lupe Fiasco pulsate through his body as his legs move in rhythm – left, right, left, right. His wheels grip is pushed to the limit as he turns the corner, the wind rushing past him. Standing straight, arms spread out, he feels like he’s flying, worries left behind as he speeds downhill, the only thing left is his fear of falling. He crouches, stretching out his right hand to the floor, gripping his board with his left, confronting his fears as his wheels clutch onto the floor, pushed to its limit, they fear their slipping inevitable. He leans into his right hand more, tightening his turn, racing past his fears. The rear wheels lose grip, lose hope of finishing its run; his board skids under his feet, sliding out from under him. His fall inescapable, he relaxes, waiting for the pain. The ground tears apart his back; the rubber on the soles of his shoes grips the floor and flips him forward. His head makes contact with the floor, the rest of his body following behind him as he rolls to a stop.
Lying on the floor, he stares up at the sky. He felt dignified as he tasted the blood on his lips. He might be a physical mess, but he faced his fears. He tried and fell, but knew he would never regret, he knew he would never wonder what would have happened.