“Part feral wolf?” Lani asks.
“Scared to leave my home,” she says as she puts her hand on a tire. “And Wyatt wouldn’t be Wyatt if he wasn’t an Eagle Scout.”
“And a big loser nerd who didn’t have any friends until this year,” he says as he grabs the seat. “And Rei wouldn’t be Rei if she wasn’t—”
“Jealous and insecure,” she says.
“And truly amazing,” Wyatt adds quietly. She puts her hand next to his. And I see, in all these hands: I did not do this myself at all, and it’s wonderful.
Aaliyah grins. “See? But as I said. I get it. So, it’s up to you. You can have your pride, or you can have this race on this sweet bike. Which do you choose?”
I look at the bike. The Corneille R-450 Pro, right there, with my freaking name on it and a giant pink bow.
“Well, the bike.” I grab it. “Obviously.”
The whole room cheers.
* * *
After an eternity of adjustments, fittings, and refittings for me, and many rounds of sparkling apple cider for my friends, Rei gives me a lift home with the bike. I keep turning around and looking at it, like it’s not real, like it’s not there.
When we pull up, Dad and the neighbors pile out of the truck and carry it to my porch like it’ll be hurt if it touches the ground. I’m not sure why all four of them are required for this task, because it’s so light I can probably lift it over my head with one arm. Before I can get out, Rei puts a hand on my arm. She leans into the back seat and pulls out a box. It’s the one she picked up at the expo.
“I’m sure you know what this is,” she says.
“A new power costume?”
“I went with the onesie. You should practice in it to make sure it doesn’t rub anything weird.”
“Just like the real athletes,” I say.
“Exactly. Open it,” she says. But I don’t.
“Thanks, Rei. For everything. But I can’t wear a costume. I can’t do this as someone else. When I’m out there, I want to be me,” I say.
Rei laughs.
“Mi-kins, you think I’d let you go out there as anyone but yourself? Open it.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. I take the box and pull the ribbon, and the lid falls off. I look at Rei.
“Jesus, Rei.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. She wraps her arms around me. I let the box fall to the floor of the car. There’s no room for anything in this hug but us.
The Starting Line
The sun is still down. I can’t sleep any longer. I’m not tired. I woke up like clockwork a split second before my alarm. I’m not even sure I slept.
I have run through this routine hundreds of times. Kyle’s advice was to practice not just the race but everything: going to bed, getting dressed, what I’ll eat, how I’ll pack my bag. It should feel like it’s happened a million times before, so you can have your head in the game.
I shower and dress. “Heading out in fifteen,” Dad calls. I can hear him and the neighbors loading up the truck. Mr. Bu and Mr. Oshiro are arguing about how to fit in the grill and the entire dead pig that they have disgustingly purchased.
Like a nervous tic, I grab a few extra hair ties and shove them into one of the plastic grocery bags I’m bringing. I have my swim bag, my first transition bag, my second transition bag, and my two “special needs” bags to perk me up halfway through the bike leg and halfway through the run. I put all of it into a duffel bag that cuts painfully into my shoulder and look at myself in the mirror.
Mr. Kalani cut my hair special last night. It is shorter than ever and looks amazing. Of course this is the day I have a good curl day, right before I shove it all up under a swim cap. I shake them out and smile. Don’t forget to smile, X’s voice in my head reminds me. I won’t. I promise.
I am wearing X’s hoodie and a pair of ratty sweatpants over my trisuit, bundled up against the morning. I am so zipped in that I worry I’ll need to pee, and worrying makes me need to pee. But if I have to pee, then I have to pee, and I’ll deal with that later. Nervous pees happen to everyone.
I have done this leaving routine hundreds of times in my head. I am zen calm under all these nerves as I walk down the hall, Achilles at my heels. I grab my breakfast bento from the fridge. I step out onto the porch. And there are the headlights, right on schedule.
“Get in!” X shouts. Lani and Wyatt are leaning out of the back seat. Rei has my bike in the Prius with Trinity. I pile in and wave to my dad.
“We’ll see you down there,” he says. “Just as soon as these lolos figure out this puzzle. Been playing Go for months, and can’t come up with a strategy to fit two damn things in a truck.”
“Will you be late?” I ask.
“We’ll be there. I promise.”
* * *
When we get to the beach, Rei and Trinity have already set up my transition area. It’s on a tiny stretch of cement that was once meant for boats. No one but us will be out here today. Wyatt got a real permit and everything.
“We couldn’t sleep,” Trinity explains as she sweeps the area around the bike. I look at her quizzically, pointing to the broom. “Broken beer bottles,” she explains. “People suck.” Then she rolls a big sheet of something that looks like AstroTurf out toward the water. Rei is somewhere near. I hear her singing: “…the world is full of zanies and fools.”
My beautiful, shiny, new, foreign, perfect bike is on a stand we borrowed from Kyle. Kyle sent his regrets. He has to work. I go over to my bike, run my hand over it. I barely got to ride it, barely had time to get used to using road bike shifters. But now that we know each other a little better, I couldn’t be more in love.
Under the tiny canopy we’ve set up, I put out everything where I need it. I lay my towel down, just like I’ve practiced. I lay out my bags, shift things into order inside. I put rocks on them to keep them from blowing away. My friends will be making water and snack runs to me all day on Lani’s scooter. It’s sitting next to the canopy, loaded up in both panniers with water bottles, Gatorade, bananas, and Lani’s homemade power chews. I open both sides, checking everything.
6 a.m. One hour to go.
I do my “activation” exercises. I jog a bit, stretch. Uncle Tua pulls up at 6:30 a.m., Dad and the neighbors in the wake of dust behind him. The boys are running the pizza shop today. They said they’d be “tracking me.” I’m not sure how.
“Nervous?” X asks. I nod.
“This is the good part,” Rei says, coming to join us. “All the hard stuff is over.”
“It’s like painting,” I say. “You have to hold it all inside yourself and let it out all at once.”
“Like a fart,” Trinity says from behind us. Lani smacks her on the shoulder, and Trinity kisses her cheek.
“Do you feel ready?” Wyatt asks.
“I feel like standing here with you guys, I’ve already won.” I throw my arms around X and Rei.
“That’s sweet, but we’ve all got bets on this,” Rei says. “And some of us were maybe a little specific.”
“Scientific,” Wyatt replies.
They keep bickering, but my head is already in the game. This stillness inside me is part of what I worked so hard for. I’m so calm. I’m so happy. I’m so ready.
* * *
At 6:45 a.m., I stand barefoot on the sand. It’s cold without my pullover and my sweatpants. I can see the buoys Wyatt put out to keep me on course. I wish I’d gotten to swim this course beforehand, but we couldn’t work it. I’m not worried. I know where I’m going. X is in the kayak, just in case. He’s sitting there, sipping a thermos full of coffee. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
6:50 feels a year away from 6:45. When is it going to be 7:00? I know behind me, people are getting breakfast, setting up more canopies, hooking up one of Mr. Oshiro’s TVs to a generator, texting, start
ing the all-day process of making kalua pig. But I can’t let myself listen to any of that.
Do I have to pee?
Whatever. I can pee in the water.
Stupid nervous pees.
Did I eat enough?
6:55.
What if I can’t do this?
What if I screw this up?
Don’t think any of that. Where’s all my calm and stillness now?
6:57.
“Guys, we’re going to count down,” Wyatt calls back. “Come on.”
I put my bare foot on the starting line. I look down. My power costume. It’s a sleeveless one-piece trisuit. Rei somehow had it custom-made for me. The front panel, over my chest and up my shoulders, is yellow rising into blue. There are crows across my heart, and that dead-end road leads up into my chest. The shorts part is deep blue, with gold racing stripes up the sides. She couldn’t help herself. I don’t mind. On my back, between my shoulder blades, there’s a silhouette of a Hawaiian crow, and all my friends’ signatures around my name.
6:59.
Absolute silence. None of this feels real. They are counting down from ten. X is pulling out in the kayak. Is this really happening? My heart is pounding.
“Three…”
I breathe. I am here.
“Two…”
In this body. In this mind.
“One…”
And nothing else matters.
“GO!”
Swim
The water is cold, but I can’t even feel it. I’m running, and then I’m knee-deep in the ocean and I can’t run any farther, but I also can’t swim yet. I crawl and scramble.
Keep it together, I tell myself. Seconds don’t matter. Your mindset does.
I keep my eye on the buoys and let myself glide over the shallow parts, where I can touch the bottom with my hand.
And then I’m out in the open water, and everything feels right.
I can see X farther off than usual, making sure I don’t get hit by a boat or drown. I have to follow the path they set out for me. It’s four loops, to keep it safe, to keep it close. One breathe, two. One breathe, two. I say it in my head until I find my rhythm.
My arms burn and my back burns, but I don’t think. Even in this primordial soup brain, X is there. Images pass through me without being called. Images of X, who is always in the corner of my eye. I look ahead, but he’s on the horizon.
This leg’s for him.
Can I pull harder? Can I go faster? Can I get under an hour?
I don’t wonder. I know.
T1
My feet slip in the sand as I run out of the ocean. I fall and bang my knee on a rock. I don’t even feel it. I’m up in a second, heavy with water. My legs feel like jelly. I’m panting so hard it feels like I’m breathing in burning salt. I am sprinting up the AstroTurf to my transition area.
Everyone is cheering, but I barely hear them. I’m doing exactly what I know needs to be done, exactly the way I’ve practiced. I throw my swim cap and goggles to one side.
“One hour and seven!” Trinity shouts at me. That’s disappointing, I think. No, I’m not letting it get to me. But god I felt so fast, how did that happen? The current?
Just keep going.
I’m breathless from the swim, but I don’t let myself think about it. My shoes, water, and snack are on the bike. My tiny emergency kit is in a pouch strapped to the seat post. My phone is in there in a ziplock bag. I pull on my helmet, snap it on without tying my hair. I run my bike to the start of the bike course, and for a moment I let myself look.
Everyone is cheering. X is jogging up from the kayak, shouting something.
I finally hear him.
“Go!”
Bike
This is me, in my element.
I am riding away, drinking water as I go. One foot in. Other foot in. Helmet on tight? Everything in its place? I’m good. Over my shoulder, I see Rei and Wyatt chasing me on foot and cheering. I wave over my shoulder. I have my snack. I smile.
Whatever speed I lost on the swim, I can get back on the bike. I’m not worried about it. The road is open in front of me. This is what I love. Now it’s time to work. I shift myself into my comfiest gear, one that would break so many people but not me. I love that low cadence speed, that feeling of grinding, of pushing hard and smooth. I tuck in tight like a diving bird of prey, streamlined on my aero bars. I settle in. I fly.
* * *
Wyatt put markers out on the road so I’ll know where I am on the bike route. 112 miles, marked every ten and at the turns. I memorized the path, but just in case. I never trained with a watch, so I didn’t want one for the race. I don’t want to know how I’m doing; I want to do my best in every moment. I know how this should feel at every mile, and that’s what I should listen to.
I’m at Mile 20. Someone drives past me and cheers. I look up. One of the pizza boys out on a delivery, taking a picture. I wave. I chase the car.
Mile 40. Lani comes by on her scooter.
“Water call.”
“Gatorade,” I slobber out. I’m breathing heavy. My mouth is slimy, like my saliva is glue. I force myself to eat some energy chews and hand her the wrappers, then drink so much Gatorade.
She rides next to me as I down an entire bottle. We have to do it this way because we can’t leave litter. I take two more bottles of Gatorade for the bottleholders on my bike, and I can tell that she wants to say something but won’t. Only I know my body and what it needs, and even if I’m thinking with thirst, I’m the only one who can make that call now.
Then I’m alone again. I feel better. I speed up.
* * *
I slow down.
Mile 56. Turn and head back in.
I look down both sides of the highway. No one. I take a deep breath.
For one second, I let myself feel the solitude of an empty highway on a bike. I listen to the wind. Then I turn around.
Rei appears on the scooter to bring me my special needs bag, but I don’t need anything. She knows I’ve got my mind on the road, and she zooms off without a word. A few miles down, I see her pulled over on the side of the road, taking pictures of me. I grin and wave, and she cheers.
I’m smiling. But my legs are killing me.
* * *
Mile 60. Why did I drink all that Gatorade? I need to pee.
Mile 60.5. I can’t. I won’t.
Mile 61. I can almost hear Trinity laughing. But good lord what a relief.
* * *
Mile 80. I feel it happen.
I’ve got a flat.
No! Front tire.
I slow to a stop and twist out of my pedals, keeping my shoes on my feet.
No. No. No. Not now!
I take a deep breath. I unzip the emergency kit. I know what to do.
My hands are shaking because I’m losing time. I pop off the wheel, squeeze all the air out, get the old tube out from under the tire. Now I’m mad. Of course this would happen. Now I’ll be so slow. This bike leg is ruined.
Knock it off. Keep going.
I kneel in the grass with the wheel. My legs are jelly, and I can’t stand and do this. I try to stretch the new tube onto the wheel. It won’t fit.
“COME ON,” I shout. It’s so hard to get it on. I’m starting to cry, I’m so frustrated.
“Pull it together,” I say out loud. “This is not over. You can cry or you can focus.”
I take another deep breath, close my eyes, open them, and start again. Trinity made me practice this over and over. I can do this.
The tube goes on the wheel. The tire goes over. Now the CO2 cartridge. The tire inflates in an instant, exactly like it should. I feel it with my hand. Even after just one week, I know this bike by touch and feel. This is good enough to get me home.
I get the w
heel back on as Trinity is riding up on the scooter. For an instant she looks concerned, and then she’s all business.
“You good?”
“Good.”
“Need anything?”
“No.”
“I’ll get the trash. Go. You got this.”
As I’m riding away, I hear her howling: “We choose to go to the freaking moon!”
* * *
Mile 90. Furious about the lost time. I bike harder than I should. I bike angry.
I push against the wind, crunching myself up into a flat little glider, cutting through the universe.
Anger echoes anger. I think about everything I’m angry about, every frustration. I feel my legs getting heavier and heavier.
And then I can’t help it.
He’s there. His hair. His eyes. His hands. I’ll never race far enough to get away from him.
All my fury becomes one question: Why? Stroke after stroke of why, burning up my legs as I battle the wind.
Why did you do it?
Why did you lead me on for so long?
Why wasn’t I good enough for you to love me?
“Why” keeps my legs spinning, takes back the minutes I lost changing that tire. I have never been this fast, or this hurt, because even on my day he’s snuck back in. I take him everywhere, like a chain that slips, throwing me off. Will he always be there waiting to jump out? Was all of this for nothing?
I fly back into camp to a cheer, but not an answer.
T2
I am shaking when I get off my bike. X is there to take it from me, and I try to run back to my transition area, but I can’t. I have to walk.
Fierce as the Wind Page 20