Whispers in the Wheels

The forest hummed before the ride even began.

Beneath a canopy of tangled green, I dropped my board to the gravel-dusted road, oak and maple leaves whispering above like an audience holding its breath. My foot hit the pavement once, twice, three times, then I was flying.

Not with wings. With wheels.

The wind caught my jacket like a sail as the world tilted slightly downward. I bent my knees, toes guiding the board like a surfer reading the soul of a wave. Each crack in the road sang beneath the wheels, a rough percussion that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Sunlight slashed through the trees in golden bars, blinking across my face like strobe lights at nature’s own rave. My board hummed beneath me like an extension of my body, my thoughts, my instinct. I leaned into a gentle curve, the forest blurring at the edges, speed washing away the noise in my head until there was only this.

This breath.

This rush.

This silent scream of freedom.

The air smelled like pine and wet bark. A squirrel darted across the path ahead, but I veered without fear, trusting the board, trusting the road, trusting something deeper than sight. My hand brushed the ground on a tight turn, fingertips skimming the forest’s pulse.

Gravity didn’t feel like a force. It felt like a friend.

Every second was a gamble with joy balancing on the thin thread between control and chaos. A rut in the pavement jolted the board and I crouched, absorbing the shock, laughing because I was still riding, still alive, still flying.

And when the road finally flattened out, and I rolled to a slow, whispering stop beneath a swaying birch tree, the silence after the storm was deafening.

I looked back up the road.

Then smiled.

Then pushed off again.

Because once you’ve tasted flight on four wheels in the woods, gravity never owns you the same way again.