I just love a good race

When I was 16, I lived in a neighbourhood that was basically one block of houses surrounded by a wooded area, with a relatively steep hill on the streets that ran North/South.

Throughout the summer, kids from the neighbourhood would race around the block on their bikes. As summer progressed, our runs got faster and faster: down one hill, around the corner, up the next hill and back down to the foot of the hill again - all told about 750 yards.

One early-September afternoon, I was out with a friend who'd just cycled a pretty quick lap. Not to be outdone, I headed out for my turn, feet well clipped into the pedals. Like so many times before (but perhaps with a bit more ferocity), I sped down the hill, turned right, powered my way back up the next street, another right and began my final stretch down to the finish - when a friend of my brother's decided to run out into the street in front of me with arms flailing.

You can probably guess what happened next: a slow-motion crash that broke my collar bone, sprained my wrists and elbows, and left my body looking like I'd just had a cheese grater makeover on at least a third of it.

But even with me sliding the last few yards on my face - it was my fastest time yet. Until the following spring, anyway.