That Sunday Morning (part-3)

This was not the first time we had raced. Only
my brother had invariably beaten me and then
crowed about it for days. I was determined to win
this time. I pedalled as fast as I could. My legs
ached and my skirt billowed out, threatening to
hit my face. The trees on either side of the road
had become one green blur. My hair blew behind
me and my lungs were bursting for air. Soon I drew
level with my brother and then gradually I moved
ahead. I could see the corner, in a haze.