The only thing I can remember about India is the stifling heat; everything else remains a dark fog in my mind. My family immigrated to America and settled into a tiny apartment on a high rise apartment building where no questions were asked and the neighbors had strange smells coming from their houses. I remember clearly my first days of school, walking up to the big brown building and taking the insults from the other kids because I didn't speak English. With the strange and different American food and the lack of friends, I began to hate life in America. The weekends were the worst, however. My dad would take the whole family to a long trail and we would all have to walk for four miles, or until we all dropped from exhaustion.
             When I was six my dad decided it was time for me to learn to ride a bike, as my older brother had been riding around for a year now. I can still see the large blue monster, with its thick wheels and a set of training wheels hanging from the side. As I slowly got on the bike I saw my brother racing down the trail in his jet black bike, which was zipping by as if it had a will of its own. Now shaking, I told my dad that I didn't want to learn to ride bikes. Needless to say, that summer was very painful for me, as my dad continually forced me to ride. My brother had been a quick study; it was painfully obvious that I would never learn to master the bike. Finally, at around the middle of summer, I was able I was able to achieve some form of riding, if only with my father pushing the bike along.
             It was a hot Sunday in July, and what I hoped was my last lesson. My dad brought out the beat up old bike again and we were back on the trail. "Maybe you should ride alone today?" my dad questioned. "No way! Do you think I'm crazy", I replied. We began as we always did, working up to a decent gallop. I was riding along casually, knowing my father was close
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