The sun rose, glinting off the windows of the lookout tower atop the mountain. I stood thousands of feet below and stared at the dancing rays. I was going to be up there soon to claim my spot as the champion. Months of training and hundreds of miles had led to this moment, and I felt ready for victory. A horn sounded, and I took off with the group of scouts. Just as I settled into my groove, disaster struck. My shifter slipped and my chain came off the bike, tangling and wedging itself between the gears and the bike frame. The pedal, now with no tension, went flying around, the small spikes that had helped me keep my grip now cut into my shin. Bitter, bruised, and bleeding, I got off my bike to start fixing the issue. I watched helplessly as the other scouts rode further away, taking with them any hope I had of victory.

Eventually I was able to make the bike rideable, but it was still unable to shift gears. I got back on and stood on the pedals, throwing my weight into every slow and heavy rotation of the wheel. This wasn't an unfamiliar experience for me. When I had first attempted this ride years prior, I had the same feelings of frustration at being left behind, and the same fear of letting myself down. I had spent years waiting for this moment. I had hoped to finally prove to the scouts I was worthy of their respect and wasn’t the weak kid they thought I was, but my chances of that seemed to be pedaling away from me up the mountain. I kept pushing, sweat now pouring into my eyes, flies circling around me like vultures, blood trickling from my now dark purple, throbbing shin. My legs burned from the hundred miles pedaled in days prior. I was putting every ounce of power I could into this ride.

Soon, I could see the other scouts, nearly a hundred feet above me on the road. Encouraged, I pushed even harder, ignoring the agonizing scream from my legs. After only a few minutes, I smiled inwardly as I watched their sweaty backs disappear behind me one by one. I kept up my momentum, embracing the pain. Before I knew it, I had made it to the top. It looked exactly the same as the last time I had been there, with the same feeling of emptiness. I had been sure this moment would be one of triumph, but all I could think about was thirteen-year-old me standing there, sweaty and alone, feeling once again like an outsider.

At that moment, a new resolve fell over me. I knew I had to get back on my bike, and I leapt back on and began the steep descent, gaining speed as I felt the wind in my face, sweeping away the heat and anger I had felt. I sped past the pack, counting the confused faces of the scouts as they disappeared behind me. Finding the final scout, I slammed on the brakes and rode up beside him, talking him through the familiar climb. As we rode together, I couldn't help but notice the pain in my body was gone. I had my breath back, and my legs worked like powerful machines as we rode together. As the hill tapered out and we made it through the final push, I clapped for the little scout, like nobody had clapped for me.

I finished the trip without the glory or recognition I had dreamed of, but I got something better; I showed up where I was needed and gave everything I had to see my friends cross the finish line. I believe that's what being American is all about; working hard, staying humble, and finding fulfillment in helping others to success.

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