The Smell of Fear

by Melissa
(Vancouver, BC Canada)

The Smell of Fear

The first time that I got on a bike, I was sitting behind a boy who my parent’s would have gladly dropped the dime on to get rid of. Had they known that I was plopping my rebellious, teenage butt on the back of his brother’s bike, with short shorts, no shoes and no helmet on, thank you very much, they would have killed me themselves. We took that wobbling ride, me clutching his waist and thinking that this was the way so many teenage tragedies started out but powerless to stop. The smell of fear did not come up to my addled, twitter-pated nose until the bike rumbled to a stop in the seclusion of a wildflower field. Yeah, now I come to my senses.

Lessons in life come hard for some people, but in those, there are often little nuggets of wisdom and a little bit of sweetness that softens their blow. I may have learned about the treachery of a teenage boy that day, but I also learned another thing- there was nothing that I wanted more than the rumble of a motorcycle engine beneath me, jolting every bone in my body and making me feel more alive than I ever had. I walked home that day, knuckles bleeding, dignity in tatters but virtue intact, and vowed that the next time I did get on a bike it would be a) safely b) with someone who respected me and that c) eventually it would be my own bike and I would be the one picking the secluded spot to drive to.

The smell of fear came over me in a tidal wave that first time I tried it. It was a small bike, practically harmless compared to what I sit astride these days, but there it was - to me, on that day and at that time, it was lethal as a lion and as big as an elephant. My teacher, on most days just my brother Zeke, was patient and kind but also perfectly willing to deliver a whack upside my helmet at the drop of a hat- his butt was on the line too, especially if my butt couldn’t stay in the seat. He ran over everything a second time, then sighed and started a third. The smell of fear was pushed back a little by the red hot flame of impatience inside of me and off I went, crashing into a little tree and ending up about a foot and a half from the little bike that was still whining its outrage at being on its side.

I got up and tried it again. The smell of fear was gone now, replaced by the great, good smell of joy and freedom. Every now and then, as an adult, I do things that bring up that smell. My nose opens wide looking for the smell of fear which is coming harder and harder to find. They should bottle that smell and give it to those who, like me, need to be reminded every now and then that a little fear is really a good thing.