Dorkily yours,
Lindsay
(Still accurate, regardless of clothing choices.)
CHAPTER 17
Before we go home so Phoebe can take scissors to my hair, we head to Joyride. I almost forgot that Ali and I had made that four p.m. riding plan, but Phoebe had it in her calendar, and since we’re running early, we even have time to ride together before I have to start being social. So I can ease into it.
Of course, “ease in” is pushing it, since inside, it’s kid-filled chaos. Music is blaring, and a boy skids to a stop inches from hitting me. He just nods and rolls off while I stand there shaking. Phoebe goes behind the desk, says hi to a few people who are waving to her, and grabs an envelope. Then she walks back to me.
“You know what you need?”
I’m afraid to find out.
“You need to nail a move,” she says, ignoring the look on my face as she plunks a helmet on my head. “If you can get one trick, the rest get a lot easier. Trust me.”
I don’t know that I totally believe her, but she might have a point. “Can I do that?” I ask, pointing at a couple of kids who can’t be more than six years old, who are riding toward a small plank on the floor at top speed, then lifting their wheels over it so they don’t hit it.
“A bunny hop?” she says, following my gaze. “Sure, why not? It’s just a bit more advanced than what you’ve already done in the yard.”
We find a back party room that’s been partied out, with streamers hanging limp and popcorn kernels all over the floor. With the door shut, it’s a little quieter. Phoebe points to a line on the floor. “That’s your plank,” she says.
“I thought I had to jump over something tall?” I ask, confused. Last I looked, the guys out there talking about bunny hopping were going over really big stuff.
“Well, yeah,” Phoebe says. “But you need to walk before you run, grasshopper.”
For some reason I find this utterly hilarious, and I get a bad case of the giggles. But that doesn’t stop Phoebe from pointing to the line again. “The goal is to ride at the line, pull your front wheel up and over, and then as you get that wheel over and onto the ground again, lift the rear wheel.”
I got lost around “front wheel up,” so I just stare blankly at her.
“It’s just a smoother version of what we worked on this morning,” she says. “You’re just putting it all together.”
She grabs her bike and stands over it. “Pretend you’re Supergirl. You’re flying and there’s a building right in front of you. You’d pull your arms up a little and the rest of your body would follow, and your arms would go up and over the building first. Then when your arms tilt back down, your legs would lift over it and then tilt back down. Make sense?”
That sounds more like something I can get behind. I grab my bike, feeling a little more confident (and just a little more super). I take a few pedals, then try to get the front wheel to lift.
“One, two, three, lift,” I mutter to myself, but the wheel stays firmly planted on the ground. I repeat the process again, and again, but each time, my wheel refuses to lift.
“Stop thinking about the second part and just focus on the first,” Phoebe calls helpfully. (It’s not really that helpful. I can’t stop focusing on both parts.)
“One, two, thre—”
“BOO!” Phoebe shrieks, and I’m so startled that I jump a little backward, moving my whole body, not just yanking the bike with my arms like I’ve been trying to do. And miraculously, the front wheel lifts off the ground, way more than it did with the stick earlier today.
“I did it!” I shriek back, and Phoebe cracks up.
“Okay, now do it again,” she smirks. I push my sleeves up and check my helmet, then pedal at the line on the floor, concentrating hard. As it gets closer, I tense my whole body like I’m about to get scared again, and when the crack is right in front of me, I let the tension go, using it to lift me upward, and I feel my front wheel pull off the ground for a heartbeat. It’s not a big leap, but it’s definitely off the ground. And as the front wheel taps back down, I push my weight forward and try to loosen up so the back wheel pops—just the tiniest bit—off the floor, following me like Supergirl up and over a building.
Phoebe claps and cheers, and turns up the volume on the stereo system in the room so loud music blasts out. “Let’s keep going!” she shouts.
“What are we listening to?” I yell back. She looks shocked.
“You haven’t ever listened to the Ramones?” she asks, and seems completely taken aback. When I shake my head, she shakes hers too and under her breath grumbles, “Man, we have a lot of work to do. They’re classic punk!”
“Classic punk. Lift the wheel. Hold tension,” I whisper to myself as I face down the line again. Sometimes, being the younger cousin stinks.
Jen pops her head in the door right as I hit the move again—still not getting too high, but getting a little smoother now. “Wow,” she says, looking almost impressed. “That was pretty good, for a beginner.”
Phoebe doesn’t realize I’m looking at her, and I see her roll her eyes. “Jen,” she says, “how long have you been here today?”
“My grandparents dropped me off this morning,” Jen says, tossing her hair and rolling all the way into the room. “I wanted to practice some tricks for that competition.”
“You know, you can’t learn to do big jumps all in one day,” Phoebe says, looking concerned. “That’s how you get hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Jen snaps.
“Okay,” says Phoebe. “Just don’t forget to get some good rest time too. And have fun while you’re here! Are you riding with anyone today?”
“I wanted to work solo this time,” Jen says stubbornly. “I really want to win that gold frame in the competition.”
“Are you sure? We’re just going to keep working on making Lindsay’s bunny hop better for a bit, if you want to join us. And Ali is going to be here soon.”
Jen smiles just a little and says she might swing by for a bit to get a break. But when she rides away, I see her looking back at us and I wonder if she wants to train solo for the same reasons I would—not because I don’t like her, but because being around other girls makes me sort of want to hide under the covers and read a book instead. I think Phoebe might have had a point about Jen being just as scared of me as I am of her. And in my new jeans and sweater, I feel pretty fabulous—I’d be intimidated by me!
Soon after Jen pedals off, Phoebe drags me to the front to meet Ali, who’s right on time. She waves and smiles, then rolls over to us.
“You look great!” she says to me. “I love your outfit!”
“Thanks.” I grin. “Yours too.” She looks funky in her skinny jeans and big flannel shirt, and her red hair is popping out from under the helmet.
“Phoebe, we’re going to go hit the jump line—do you want to come?” Ali asks.
“You girls go ahead, I’ll meet you there,” Phoebe says, and before I can say a word, she’s already rolling away. I’m alone, backed into a be-friendly corner. So I bravely smile and together, Ali and I pedal over to the smallest of the jump lines.
Within two runs, I’m realizing two key things: first, trying to jump is absolutely exhausting. Every part of me is tired. But, second, it’s not unlike doing a bunny hop—the motion is almost the exact same; you’re just trying to pump the bike over the top of a jump instead of over a stick on the ground. It’s starting to make a little more sense.
After the third time through the lineup of five two-foot-high bumps, Ali and I both stop to catch our breath.
“I think I definitely got air on that last one,” I say.
“Yeah, for sure,” Ali says, but my superhero senses detect that she might just be humoring me.
“Okay, it wasn’t much air, exactly, but still!” I ex
claim.
“Very impressive, yes,” she says, and starts laughing.
As she’s laughing, Jen rides up. “What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Oh, we were just talking about the awesome job Lindsay just did on the jump line,” Ali says, suddenly looking totally serious.
“Really?” Jen looks skeptical.
Phoebe picks just then to roll back to us and skids to a stop right at the top of the jump line. Perfect timing.
“You girls ready to really get to work?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
We all nod and look at each other nervously. Finally, Jen and I are on the same page.
“Come on, let’s get moving,” Phoebe says, and like a line of baby ducks behind the mommy duck, we fall in behind her and pedal.
We spent the next hour practicing over and over, and by the end, Jen and I were both pretty good at getting over the line on the floor. We graduated to a tiny board that’s only about an inch high—but we both managed to clear it without touching it, which Phoebe said is great progress.
Superhero Tip: (1) Tiny pieces of progress will add up in bike skills, so that tiny board will become a big jump if I keep working. And (2) even if you’re a fast rider like Jen, you might not be great at skills. She can go a million times faster than me, but she’s only a little better on the bunny hop.
Progressively,
Lindsay
(Meh.)
CHAPTER 18
“Should we invite Jen and Ali over to hang out tonight, maybe even have a sleepover?” Phoebe asks me in a low voice as we start heading to leave our bikes in Phoebe’s office so we don’t need to bring them in and out of the van tonight.
“Sure,” I say, trying to act casual, but my heartbeat has sped up to warp speed and I’m sure I’m about to pass out. What if they don’t want to come over? What if they do want to come over? It’s my first sleepover—I can’t be expected to handle it well!
(I know what you’re thinking: How have I never had a sleepover, at twelve years old? The honest answer? By avoiding it like the plague. Mom is always suggesting that I invite girls over, but there aren’t really any girls in school I would want to hang out with for that long. I don’t think so anyway. What would I talk about for that many hours?)
I’m pretty sure the whole bike park has started to move around in circles; that’s how dizzy with nerves I’m starting to feel about this plan.
“Jen! Ali!” Phoebe calls before I can grab her and tell her I’ve changed my mind, that I just want to go home and watch cartoons in my room with Penguin curled up on his pillow next to me. But Jen is already riding over, looking bored and effortlessly cool.
Before I know it, Jen and Ali are with Phoebe and they’re chatting away. They all seem so comfortable with each other that I’m feeling left out.
“Linds!” Jen shouts, smiling at me. “Are you into getting takeout at the Mexican place for dinner?” She doesn’t look like she’s dreading spending time with me, and that means Phoebe has already sold her on the slumber party. I feel myself start to smile—and remember Phoebe’s advice that Jen is probably just as nervous being around us. I mean, considering Phoebe is my cousin and I was nervous around her until this week, I do understand that feeling pretty well.
“I’m always into getting good Mexican food,” I say.
“A lot of our family moved here from Mexico,” Phoebe informs my new friend, “and Lindsay’s taste in food is fantastic—so she’s a pro at picking the best stuff on the menu. Want to let her do the ordering?”
“Absolutely!” says Jen, more enthusiastic than I’ve ever seen her. Score—I think I have a new friend!
The pressure is on, but this is my time to shine—I know the best place in town, and they know how to make the perfect tacos (that don’t get messy and spill everywhere). I order in fluent Spanish, and Ali and Jen both seem awed by that. It’s not that big a deal, but I did make a pretty excellent order: my favorite carnitas tacos with extra avocado slices and lime wedges on the side. I forget that not everyone speaks another language, though, because when I finish ordering with a “gracias,” I see that Jen and Ali are staring at me with their mouths hanging open.
“What?” I ask.
“How did you learn that?” Ali says.
“Speaking Spanish?”
She nods.
“My whole family speaks Spanish,” I say. “I’ve been hearing it since I was a baby, so I guess it’s just always been something I knew, like how you learn to speak English.”
“That is so cool,” Jen says enthusiastically, and she seems genuine about it. “I wish I could speak another language!”
They make me start teaching them Spanish phrases like it’s a really exciting, new thing for them, and seem shocked when I explain that I grew up switching between Spanish and English at home.
We end up with a van full of tacos and tortilla chips with spicy guacamole, plus some flan for dessert. My mouth is watering. As soon as we get home, we dig into our tacos in Phoebe’s kitchen while we talk about the upcoming jump competition. Ali is excited about it too, and Phoebe keeps staring me down like she knows I’m going to cave and sign up.
“There’s a gold bike frame that you can win,” Ali says, almost dropping her taco in her excitement. “Haven’t you noticed Jen staring at it as you walk into the park? It’s right there on display.”
Jen, of course, is in. She tells us again that she’s already done a ton of racing on the road. She’s trying to sound casual, but she seems more flustered than usual and a lot less excited than I would have expected from someone so competitive. It seems like she has a pretty love/hate relationship with the idea of racing.
“If you love racing so much, why did your parents make you stop this summer?” Ali asks.
“They just thought it was time I took a break,” Jen says defensively.
“Okay, why did you need a break?” Ali is definitely prying a little bit here, but Jen looks like she’s struggling between wanting to tell us about it and wanting to keep it to herself. But talking wins out.
“I was starting to feel really bad every time I started a race—like I was going to throw up, or pass out, or both. I almost dropped my bike and ran away at the last one…but I couldn’t stop signing up for them,” she admits. “Finally, my parents told me no more races, after I freaked out and threw my bike at the end of the last one.”
“Whoa,” says Phoebe. “That’s an intense reaction. I’ve only ever seen one other guy do that!”
“What happened?” Ali asks.
“I didn’t win,” Jen says, like that’s the obvious reason for someone to throw a bike. (Phoebe would kill me if I so much as dropped mine too hard!) Even her telling us that seemed really hard for her, and Ali and I just listen quietly as she keeps talking about how badly she wanted to win. It seems crazy to me, but I guess it’s similar to how I feel when I don’t get an A on a writing assignment….I do not throw my computer, though.
“I just couldn’t stop thinking about what happened at the end of that race. I wanted to ride my bike, but I hated my bike,” she says. She gets really quiet after she says that, and even though the image of her throwing her bike in a temper tantrum is kind of funny, it does seem like she’s had some issues with being too competitive.
“So just to be clear, you do know throwing your bike is a bad move, right?” asks Phoebe, and Jen nods.
“My parents were pretty upset—and it was super embarrassing afterward,” Jen adds.
It’s not just Jen who has some problems with racing, apparently. Ali has also raced a few times, but hated that her older brothers were unimpressed with her finishes in the small women’s fields. “I mean, I can’t help how few girls are in my races!” she says, gesturing angrily with a tortilla chip.
“You girls need to get back to the fun of racin
g,” Phoebe says, popping into the conversation and handing out glasses of her fresh-brewed kombucha, which I sip tentatively and Ali slurps down. Jen sniffs it daintily, takes a small sip, and almost spits it out. “It’s an acquired taste,” Phoebe says apologetically as Jen silently hands her glass to Ali.
“Fun of racing?” Jen asks suspiciously.
“Yeah—racing can be awesome in the right environment,” Phoebe says. “It sounds like you got way more serious about it than you should have. Race results aren’t who you are; they’re just numbers. And as for you, Ali, if what your brothers think matters more than how you feel at the end of the race, you’re not enjoying the race enough to bother with it. That’s why this jumping competition might be good for all of you,” she adds, looking right at me. “It’s short, it’s fun, it’s no-pressure, there’s a party after—and there isn’t a start line to get sick on while surrounded by a pack of kids. And since it’s skill-based, we can have you all doing awesome jumps. So?”
She looks around the table. Jen is the first to speak, and to no one’s surprise, she’s going to do the competition. “I really do miss racing,” she says, “but I don’t think I want to race on the road bike anytime soon. So I’m in.”
Ali smiles. “Me too.”
She puts her hand out in the middle of the circle we’ve formed, and Jen slaps hers right on top.
That leaves me. All three of them are staring. Phoebe looks hopeful, and Jen looks curious, like she’s not sure if I’ll have the guts or not. Ali nods at me encouragingly.
“Fine,” I say, clearly outnumbered, and put my hand in on top of Jen’s.
For a shining second, we all cheer loudly but I know we’re all still nervous, each of us for different reasons. Phoebe reaches over and pats me on the back. “It’ll be painless, I promise,” she whispers. I smile weakly at her—I want to believe that’s true, but while I might be able to handle another crash on the bike, the idea of being in front of a bunch of judges and my new friends still seems pretty painful to me.
Lindsay's Joyride Page 8