He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"I always wondered," his mother continued, apparently not aware that he was frozen in shock, "if you didn't use Nick's death as an excuse to quit because you lacked self-confidence. Was that it, Adam? Were you afraid you might not win?"
"No. No, I...." He strangled on words of self defense.
"I never doubted you, you know, and neither did Nick. We always believed you were the best in the world. I guess," she said, her voice quavering, "that's why I was so angry with you. Why I still am, for that matter. We chose to do what we did, Adam, because we believed in you. But you didn't believe enough in yourself to honor our choices."
All he could do was stare at her, unbelieving.
"That's what I mean when I say that you were unforgivably arrogant. You knew what was best for me, and you didn't ask what I might want. You didn't see that I might be perfectly content in a small apartment, might enjoy the fabric store. Did it ever occur to you, Adam, that I wanted to see you stand up there beside Steve much, much more than I wanted to be taken care of?"
"Why didn't you say something?" He could barely force the whisper from a throat gone tight.
"I tried. So did Juliana. But you weren't listening." Wiping her eyes, she smiled, a hesitant, lip-trembling smile. "You still don't listen to us, Adam. You just go ahead and do what you think is best. That's one reason why Juliana and I pushed the expansion, to show you that you're not the only one in this family who knows what's good for KIWANDA."
Adam later remembered rising from the table, thanking his mother for dinner. He must have behaved normally, although for the life of him, he didn't see how.
Arrogant! If he spent a week searching the dictionary, he didn't think he could find a word he'd hate having applied to himself more. Of all human failings, he detested arrogance. God knows he'd seen enough of it when he was competing. And hated it, vowed never to become like some of the young men who had challenged his skill. They had been arrogant, with their imperious manners, their strutting conduct.
Arrogant? Was that how his mother, his sister saw his sacrifice? God! All he'd wanted to do was make up to them for all they'd done for him. It had been too late for Pop, but not for Mom.
All he'd done in the last seventeen years, all the choices he'd made, all the sweat and all the struggle, had been for Mom and Juliana.
No he wasn't arrogant. He was a loving son, a considerate brother. He'd never presume to dictate how his family lived, only help them live well. Mom just didn't understand what he'd done, how much he'd sacrificed to make up for hers.
Chapter Eleven
CYCLOCROSS: a wild and dangerous race over obstacles on difficult terrain
Adam was in Taiwan again, had been since the Tuesday after Labor Day. Perhaps that was just as well. Stell had officiated at races three times in September, using up the entire weekend at each event. He would not have been overjoyed with her absences, and after his all too obvious boredom at the Eugene races, she wouldn't invite him to go along with her again.
She braked for the SUV that cut ahead of her, across the bike lane and into the parking strip. 'Share the road' was a concept some people just didn't get. When the vehicle pulled into the clinic parking lot not twenty feet ahead of her, she wondered which mail order forger the driver had gotten his license from.
The early October air was warm against her bare legs as she sat on the front steps of the clinic to slip out of her cleated cycling shoes. This was the first time she'd ridden to her P.T. appointment. Would Carl have a fit?
"You rode in?" he said, when she walked into his office. "Good. I was going to suggest you do so next time, so I could test you after sustained exercise." He motioned toward the treadmill. "You know the drill. Let's get started."
"Well?" she said, after Carl had gone through the tests.
He grinned. "You're seeing Frank next, aren't you?"
"Yes. How's my leg?"
"Go see Frank. I'll give him a call."
"Carl, what about my leg?"
His grin grew wider. "No need to yell. It's better. Much better. Now go see Frank. He'll answer your questions."
She was only in Frank Pauvel's waiting room about five minutes before the nurse called her inside. The sports medicine specialist had warned her more than once that pushing herself wouldn't help her get better faster, and she'd tried to take his advice. She really had.
He poked and prodded, looked over her chart, and studied the x-rays, both the ones from right after her accident, and the ones she'd had taken last week. At last Stell couldn't stand the suspense any longer.
"Well? Say something? Is it any better?"
Frank frowned, scratched his chin, screwed up his mouth. Slowly he nodded.
"What does that mean? Tell me, darn it!"
He broke into a wide grin. "It means that I can't see any reason why you can't resume a normal life, as long as you don't overdo your training."
"A normal--" Stell couldn't believe she'd heard correctly.
"That's right. As long as you start out slow, I see no reason why you can't go into training. Just back off if you feel any unusual pain. And call me."
Stell jumped off the examining table and threw her arms around him. "Thank you. Oh, thank you, Frank. I'd hoped--" Her voice broke as a huge lump formed in her throat. "I wanted so badly--" She felt tears roll down her cheeks and buried her face in his lab coat.
For several moments he held her, patting her back gently. Finally he pushed her away, and said, "You did it, not me. All I did was growl at you when you got out of line. If you weren't in such incredible shape, you'd be another six months healing."
Sniffing, she could only nod.
"Just remember, you're not going to reach peak condition immediately. It'll take time. The more time the better, because you don't want to risk re-injuring the tissues. So take it easy, okay?"
"Okay. Yes. I will." Using the paper towel he handed her to wipe her runny nose, Stell worked to pull herself together. She had hoped to hear good news today, but this was beyond her wildest fantasies. She promised Frank again that she'd train carefully, and said goodbye.
All the way home she grinned like a clown.
Only when she was putting her bike away, did she happen to think, Wait 'til I tell Adam.
That was when she realized that he might not see her good news in the same light she did.
* * * *
The narrow residential street was lined with cars, with not a parking place to be seen. Adam almost turned around and went to the office. His desk was piled with decisions to be made, crises to be dealt with. What was he doing here on a drizzly October afternoon, anyway?
Three blocks from the entrance to the parking lot, he finally found an empty slot. After locking the car, he pulled his wool driving cap lower over his brow and zipped the high collar of his jacket tighter against his throat. Damn, that wind had a bite to it!
A line of bright neon yellow flags marked the Cyclocross route. Adam tried to trace it with his eyes, as it dropped over the shoulder of the low hill. Near the bottom, a board, easily a foot high, was staked across the route, clearly meant as an obstacle for the cyclists. "What the hell?" he muttered, not really surprised. They were all crazy.
He headed uphill, toward the crowd and the source of the loudspoken announcements. From the sound of it, the race had already begun.
There they came, a huge pack, out from behind a maze of orange fencing, along a chute about eight feet wide. A steady stream of riders swept by him and on down the hill. Most were already wet and spattered with mud.
He watched as the pack leaders reached the obstacle. They swung off their bikes, picked them up, and jumped the board. Without breaking stride, they were back aboard, peddling furiously across a swale and up the opposite slope. As he watched, one caught a wheel on the board and fell, to trip the person behind. The pack separated around them, but no one else tripped.
Was Stell actually riding in this race? He couldn'
t believe she'd risk life and limb doing something as stupid as this. One misstep and she'd lose her chance at the Sawtooth Classic.
The spectators drifted across the lawn, toward the crest of a hill. He followed. Waiting while three riders tore past him on the muddy track, he looked around, saw bicycles everywhere. The route must go all the way around the park, then. He wondered how long it was.
"My God!" Adam stared, not believing what he saw before him. The hill on which he stood dropped away at better than a forty-five degree angle, into a deep ravine no more than a hundred yards wide. A muddy track led off to his right, angled down the steep slope, then up again to follow a narrow path between a chainlink fence and a sheer cliff. Directly opposite where he stood, an apparently vertical chute dove back into the ravine, crossed it, bent around a tree, and wound away again, to climb an only slightly gentler slope.
Even as he watched, a group of riders came from behind him and slid, ran, tumbled, or rode down the first slope. At the bottom those who were still mounted jumped off. With bikes slung across their backs or over a shoulder, they all ran--ran!--up the opposite hill.
"Go, Chris! Catch it up!" a young woman nearby yelled, as a skinny guy in a black and red jersey almost lost it on the slippery mud.
Adam wondered how any of them remained upright. The first riders reached the top of the hill and bounced back aboard. He watched as they rode along the edge of the cliff, too fascinated to look away, even though he knew he was watching suicide in progress.
"My God!" he said again, when the first rider aimed his bike down that vertical chute, was quickly followed by five more. His breath caught in his throat as he watched them descend, surely out of control.
"That's the Elevator Shaft," he heard someone behind him say. "I rode it last year. It's terrifying."
Another voice seemed to ask a question.
"No, it's better to ride it. Look!"
Adam looked, as a rider fell into the blackberry bushes framing the Elevator Shaft. Another, obviously lacking confidence, dismounted and tried to carry his bike down, only to slip in the mud and go sliding, out of control, all the way to the bottom. Luckily the rider just behind was able to avoid him.
All around him voices were starting to cheer for favorites as more and more cyclists reached the ravine.
"Way to go, Garry!"
"Close it up. Close it up, Warren!"
He saw a flash of pink and green just as the voice behind him called, "Yea, Stell! You've got the lead!" He looked, following her with his eyes, as she dismounted, ran full tilt up the hill, and disappeared behind the trees near the top. Within seconds she was again in sight, heading for the Elevator Shaft.
Adam closed his eyes. He couldn't watch.
He opened his eyes. He couldn't not watch.
Stell didn't even hesitate at the top. Almost before he could gasp, she was at the bottom, cutting a smooth curve around the tree, and speeding across the ravine, to climb out of his view. The rider just behind her slid in the growing puddle at the bottom of the ravine and careened across the grass. When he finally came to rest, his back wheel was fully detached from his bike.
For the third time, Adam said "My God!" but this time it was as heartfelt as any prayer he'd ever breathed.
Quickly he cut through the crowd, went to stand near the start/finish line. The orange plastic fencing marked off a chicane, a twisted path about a hundred yards long. It looked relatively safe, and it slowed the riders so he wouldn't have to watch as they tore themselves and their bikes apart.
Quickly growing bored with the relative tameness of bicycles merely slipping and sliding through the chicane, Adam followed the double line of flagging, moving against the direction of the race. He'd overheard someone say that the leaders were doing about six minute laps and the race lasted an hour. He had plenty of time to see the whole route.
He was staring, fascinated by the activity at the second hurdle, when his name was called.
"Hey, Boss."
Adam swung around. Pushing a bike with a bent front wheel, limping, and grinning like a fool, Rick was approaching across the lawn. His muddy jersey stuck to his body, rain streamed down his legs, and shivers visibly shook him.
"What happened?" Adam unzipped his jacket and stripped it off. The cold wind cut through his sweater, chilling him to the bone. "Put this on," he ordered Rick, furious that the younger man would risk pneumonia so casually.
"I lost it on the last turn," he said, jerking his chin back toward the north end of the park. "It's getting damn slick and the wheels just went out from under me." He pulled Adam's jacket around him, tucked his hands under his arms. "Thanks."
Adam could see the goosebumps on his legs, exposed below the cycling shorts.
They both stood and watched the cyclists laboring up the hill, dismounting, and jumping--or trying to--over the foot-high hurdle. Some were obviously at the end of their strength. Lifting their bikes seemed almost more than they could do, and remounting obviously took agility and coordination that they were rapidly losing.
Most of them. A tall man in blue and white soared off his bike, lifted it as if it weighed ounces instead of pounds, and bounced over the hurdle and onto his saddle. "He won last year's Master's Nationals," Rick commented when Adam marveled aloud at the contrast with most of the racers. "Look. Here comes Stell."
Adam was treated to another display of phenomenal stamina. Stell's dismount, leap, and remount were graceful, quick, and efficient.
"Isn't she something?" Rick said, wonder in his voice.
"She is indeed," Adam agreed, acknowledging her excellence, even as his gut knotted in sheer terror.
Something else sat in his gut like a lead weight. The fear that each time she competed, she would slip farther away from him. Stell McCray wasn't going to give up bicycle racing, not even for love. Adam wasn't sure he could accept second place in her life.
Stell had seen Adam as she started down the Elevator Shaft on the second circuit. All her attention should have been on the race, all her concentration on staying upright and not sliding on the increasingly liquid track. In a crowd of forty of fifty spectators, he stood out, his neon orange-trimmed KIWANDA rain parka like a fiery beacon, demanding her notice. He was watching with a kind of horrified fascination. She forced herself to concentrate on the race.
Later she saw him standing beside the obstacles, but she was concentrating so hard on keeping her feet under her in the sea of slippery mud that she could spare him no attention. The third time she caught sight of him, she was careening around the chicane, with only one lap to go. She forgot him as soon as he disappeared behind her, because she couldn't afford to let anything distract her.
Then the race was over, and she had come in fourth. Mud-covered, one cheek streaked with dried blood, and starting to shiver as the adrenaline and sweat of her exertion both dried up, Stell leaned on her bike near the finish line, her eyes searching the crowd for another sight of Adam.
"You're crazy, you know that?"
Stell spun around, knowing that voice. "Hi, Frank," she said, dreading what he was going to say to her. Although neither Frank Pauvel nor Carl had given her permission to ride a Cyclocross so soon, they hadn't expressly forbidden it, either.
"How's it feel?" Frank was scowling, but that didn't mean a lot. He looked like he was scowling most of the time, with his heavy black eyebrows. "This hurt?"
To her surprise, his probing at her knee wasn't the slightest bit painful. She told him so.
"Rotate your leg."
She did so. At his directions, she moved her leg through its full range of motion. He watched and touched, exploring the hip, the ankle, as well as the knee. It wasn't until her chattering teeth became audible that he ceased his examination.
"Make an appointment so I can check you out. Tell Marla I told you to come in this week." He smiled then, looking happier than she'd ever seen. "I wouldn't have given you two cents to have recovered this well, this soon. And then to pull a stupid stunt like
racing today--well, all I can say, Stell, is that someone, somewhere, wants you to ride that race next summer."
She couldn't speak for the happiness flooding her whole being. Unless she was mistaken, and she knew she wasn't, Frank had just told her that her leg would stand up to the Sawtooth Classic.
She wheeled her bike to the van, absently responding to the congratulations of other cyclists and many of the spectators.
She'd done it! Come next June, she'd be in Idaho, living her dream.
If only she could believe Adam would be there to see her do it.
Adam! Where is he? I forgot all about him!
* * * *
Adam caught up with her before she had her bike loaded. "Congratulations. Rick says fourth place was pretty remarkable, considering it's your first race in seven months."
She turned around. Her face, where it wasn't streaked with drying mud, was chalk white and strained. Violet shadows underlined her eyes, and lines of strain around her mouth made her look older than her age. An almost-forgotten coal of anger flared in his belly. He wanted to grab her, to shake some sense into her.
After not seeing her for nearly five weeks, he wanted to kiss her until she begged for mercy.
He did neither, because he couldn't make up his mind which he wanted the most.
"Thanks. I feel pretty good about it."
She even sounded old. "You're exhausted. Do you want me to drive you home?"
With obvious effort, she lifted the bike into the van, laying it on its side, rather than using the gadget that held it upright by tightening down on the front fork. "No, but thanks. I'll be fine."
"I'll follow you, then."
Stell wiped a muddy palm across her forehead. "Adam, would you mind terribly if I went home alone? I'm really cold. All I can think of is climbing into a tub of hot water and soaking for an hour or two."
Stifling the bruise to his ego--they hadn't seen each other since Labor Day and she didn't act like she'd even missed him--Adam agreed "I'll pick up a pizza and drop by about six, okay?"
TWICE VICTORIOUS Page 15