Honorable Mention
Jack Mertens
Age: 13
School: Home Study
When I hit the biking trails, fun and exercise went hand in hand—rather blistered hands in my case, for I had neglected to bring riding gloves. The day was warm and sunny when we drove to the Lincoln Parish biking trails just north of Ruston. Spring had just arrived, and rain had not visited recently, so the trails weren’t washed out. The weather was perfect for a ride with my family and friends on the trails of Louisiana.
We arrived at the trail entrance in the early afternoon, and we began to suit up: helmet, water bottle, and bicycle. A lucky few also had gloves. Then we started riding.
Naturally, I took the advanced riding trail (as opposed to the beginners’). I made this decision not because I am a capable rider, but because that was what everyone else was doing. Because I had not touched my bike in months, it took a good amount of time to stretch my leg muscles and get them used to cycling again. I kept my bike in a relatively low gear (I didn’t want to die of heat stroke) and tried to keep up with my dad and brother on the path. It felt good to be out on the trail again.
Keeping up with everybody else proved to be a chore, and I had broken a sweat before the second mile of the trail—bad news for me because the advanced trail was ten miles long. I shifted to a lower gear and kept going, the thrill of the trail urging me to go faster. At one point, I spotted a rather steep gorge ahead on the right side of the trail—fifteen or twenty feet deep. In this area there was also a large assortment of roots stretched over the trail, daring riders to ride across them, at the risk of falling down into the gorge. I walked that section of trail. I like a thrill once in a while, but not that directly. Our group then continued on, up and down winding trails that strained my reflexes to the utmost.
At about the seventh mile of the trail, we arrived at the king of the hills. Once I wound my way to the top, I looked down to see a roller-coaster-like drop, straight down the hill, staring me in the face. I had been dreading this hill, for previous bikers had described it to me. My dad and friends glided down the hill with apparent ease. In the end, though, I decided not to brave the suicidal drop of the slope, for the park had conveniently provided steps leading down the hill beside the trail. Riding that slope, I decided then, would be a pleasure reserved for another time.
By the time I reached mile ten, I was sweating profusely, my water bottle was empty, my hands were covered with blisters (I really wanted those riding gloves), and my legs were worn out from the three and a half hours of trail riding. I had enjoyed myself immensely and had fun; I had also completed an extraordinary amount of exercise for one day. I still can’t decide which was better—the fun or the exercise. I guess they just go hand in hand when I’m biking.
