bear at the door

"Harold, My brakes don't work," she said. They were riding rented bicycles on their honeymoon in Ireland.
"Those bastards," said Harold, "I knew they hated us because were American."
"Harold, My brakes don't work."
"just pull onto the grass up there where it flattens out."
"where, where?
"there, there, right there, you missed it."
They were on a hill. On one side were cliff that dropped down two hundred feet to the ocean. On the other side there were cliffs going up fifty feet.
"Harold." The hill was getting steeper.
"Stay calm, we just have to think. Maybe there will be another place to pull off." Harold wasn't braking in order to keep up with her. His face was bright red.
"There isn't one, Harold there's a corner down there."
"Harold, I don't think I can make the turn going this fast"
"Harold, I'm scared." Her hat blew off and her hair was streaming behind her. her fingers were white with bright red knuckles where she gripped the handle bars.
"I think you might have to tip over before the cliff," Harold said.
"What?"
"Put you feet down, try to scrape your feet along the ground."
"I'm going too fast to."
"Do it, do it anyway." The cliff was one hundred feet away. they we thirty miles an hour.
"I'll scrape myself really bad."
"Tip over, tip over." Harold yelled at her.
He was still yelling it as they sailed off the cliff together. She was silent, a look of chock on her face.