Back in Possum Holler** where I came up, we didn't have fancy skate parks or empty swimming pools or ramps or stairs or rails or sidewalks or smoothly paved roads. But we had hills and we had gumption.
Having mastered the smaller slopes, I decided to tackle the "big hill". I made the long, slow trudge up, reached the crest, and turned to survey the great expanse before me. Donning my father's old motorcycle helmet (a fortuitous if dorky decision), I planted my feet and began the descent.
The pines rolled by. The breeze blew cool on my face. The sun shone bright on Appleberry Mountain. I gathered speed. The pines blurred. The asphalt raced beneath my feet. I accelerated. The wind stung my eyes. I was flying!
Then it started, a subtle wiggle in the board that rapidly amplified in wider and wider oscillations until, suddenly, the board was gone. Wipe out. I was flying.
I landed with an unpleasant thud on my (mercifully cushioned) noggin and skidded to a stop on the coarse gravel. Standing up, I saw the patches of missing skin on my hip and elbow. (I still have a scar.) Gazing up at the mighty hill, my vanquisher, I vowed never to ride it again. I, Hillbilly Icarus, had flown too high and paid the price.
My bloodied limbs swung heavy on the slow walk home.
Is this narrative an example of:
a) man against man?Explain your answer.
b) man against nature?
c) man against the bone-headed idiocy of youth?
* I made those up. Shh...
** That's actually true.