She holds out an arm and points to a scar below her elbow. “Last year’s Pow Cross. What can I say? I ride aggressive.”
“And that’s why I love you.” Kurt nuzzles his face into her neck and Topher makes gagging noises.
“Don’t mind me while I jerk off on my own over here.”
“Aww, Toph,” Alex says, “you’ll find someone.”
Hannah pops into my head. I have no idea what her type is, but she loves riding and maybe her quiet nature could balance out Topher’s… Topherness. I stand on my toes to whisper in Mica’s ear. “I might have someone for him.”
“Does she ride?”
“She’s racing today.”
He hooks his pinkie through mine. “Perfect.”
Since I’m the only one riding in the earlier round, they walk with me toward the starting gate. After affectionate slaps on the back—and the ass from Topher—Mica gives me a hug and kisses me on the nose. “We’ll be waiting for you at the finish.”
“Good luck!” Alex shouts, and I wave at them as I take my place in my heat.
“Mike!” a different voice shouts.
I scan the faces for someone familiar, and finally spot Hannah not far from Mica and the rest of them. She pushes through the people around her, then ducks under the rope corralling me in and winds through the bikes until she reaches me. She grabs me in a hug. “Good luck!”
“Thanks, you too. What heat are you in?”
“The last one.” Her eyes widen like she can’t believe it.
I hug her again. “That’s so awesome!”
“I’m thinking stupid.”
“Hannah, you may not be flashy but you’ve got balls.” She smiles. “Mica and his friends are in that heat, too.”
She looks over her shoulder like she’s checking out the competition, even though this isn’t her group. “Then I’m definitely not winning.”
“Stop. Just have fun. That’s what this is all about, right?”
She sighs. “Right.”
“So have fun. And,” I pause dramatically, “maybe you’ll meet a cute boy or something and you two can ride off into the sunset together.”
She looks down at herself. She’s wearing the standard riding outfit and looks like a total beast. In a good way. “Yeah. I’ll meet a guy in this.”
Considering Topher thinks looking like a banana is a good thing, Hannah might be exactly what he’s looking for. “Maybe.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”
An air horn pierces the air. “Riders, get ready.”
I give Hannah a shit-eating grin. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out!”
“Good luck! And watch the start—that’s where most people get tangled up.” Several heads turn her way as she hurries through the maze of bikes. I face the front of the pack. There are maybe fifty people in this heat—Mica said it’s one of the bigger ones because so many people want to ride this race—and based on the mix of gear, a lot of them don’t belong here. Everyone’s wearing a helmet—race rules—but not everyone has clothes that protect from branches and I swear there are a couple dirt bikes ahead of me.
Another thing I notice is this is definitely an all-ages event. There are teenagers here, but we’re in the minority.
But the one thing we all have is nerves and excitement. You can practically taste the adrenaline in the cool air. I rest one foot on the pedal and grip the handlebars. The woman next to me seems just as focused so I shouldn’t have to worry about her bumping me, but I’m not so sure about the group on my right. They’re wearing matching hot pink t-shirts, have plastic tiaras attached to their helmets, and every other second they burst into giggles. I adjust so I’m closer to the woman on my left and whisper, “Good luck.”
She smiles. “You too. First race?”
I nod.
“My fourth. Your friend’s right. Watch out for other riders.”
“Thanks.”
Then the air horn sounds again and we start pedaling.
Chapter 30
Trail Rule #10: The time will come when you have no one to rely on but yourself.
The race starts with a churning of pedals and shouts as people rub tires. A hundred feet after the start, the opening where we were waiting narrows and it’s like shoving your way through a funnel—while balancing on a piece of metal and two rubber tires. At least the ground is clear of debris.
Once I make it to the trail, I try to block out the other riders and concentrate on the ground ahead of me, but it’s impossible. We’ve got maybe two feet between us, and based on the heavy breathing behind me, someone’s about to pass. I move to the right so we don’t collide, and two guys rocket past me. The riders up ahead all move to the side, and they speed past them.
Why can’t you do that?
The voice in my head isn’t known for being encouraging, but here she is, telling me to try harder. Why CAN’T I do that?
Because you’re scared to pass people.
But I did it last weekend! And they’re making it so easy.
Then quit thinking about it and do it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shift left and shout, “On your left!” The other guys didn’t warn them, but I’ve got manners.
I pedal past the first three people easily—counting them off as I pass—but the next rider won’t move. “On your left,” I shout, but still nothing. I guess not everyone is as willing to help other riders. I stay behind him, careful not to get so close that I clip his bike, and also watching over my shoulder in case anyone else is trying to pass. I follow him up a gentle incline that ends with a sharp right turn, then we’re gliding downhill.
Suddenly I recognize this part of the trail from last weekend. Mica mentioned that they change the course every year so he couldn’t know where it’d go, but this part is definitely familiar. And there’s a giant root in the middle of the trail after the next turn. Odds are this guy will go to the right and that’ll be my chance to pass.
Less than thirty seconds later, we take the turn. I can’t see the root, but bikes are clearly moving around an obstacle in the middle of the trail. But the guy doesn’t change course. I move left, knowing what we’re about to encounter, and at the last minute he mumbles under his breath and hit the brakes. He veers right and ends up in the trees while I cruise past the next person.
I do a victory dance in my head, but am careful to keep my mouth shut. Until today, every biker I’ve met has been overly courteous, but that’s apparently not the rule on race day.
The trail narrows, winding up a steeper incline, and I move to the center of the trail. We pedal single-file, the only sounds the clicks of our bikes and our heavy breathing. A shout and high-pitched scream echo through the trees, sending a dozen birds from their perches in the branches above us. Snow falls through the air and it’s so breathtaking I want to live in this moment forever.
My front tire hits a rock, sending a jarring shock through my body. Now is not the time for staring at the sky. The guy behind me grunts as he hits the same rock. I tighten my grip on my handlebars and push out all thoughts except the race. There’s no way in hell I’m going to win, or even place, but that doesn’t mean I can’t ride as hard as possible.
When the trail widens, I pedal harder and swing to the left, ready to pass the next rider. Deep breath. You’ve got this. I hesitate before saying “on your left” but say it anyways. He shifts ever so slightly to the right and I move past him. “Thanks.”
I manage to pass the next two riders—a guy and a girl that seem about my age—but get hung up at a series of short switchbacks. I downshift to make the climb smoother and stand on my pedals to make it easier to balance at the slower speed. But the biker in front of me suddenly stops moving.
“My gear! It won’t catch!” he shouts.
“You have to be pedaling,” someone else yells.
I try to get around him but the trees are too close to the trail. I back off, but now there’s a rider right behind me and
I literally have nowhere to go.
“Watch out!” Someone behinds me yells and before I can brace myself, something clips my back tire at the same time that I hit the guy in front of me. There’s a split second where time seems to stand still—my feet are on my pedals and my hands grip the handlebars, but my wheels are locked and I’m somehow weightless—then everything speeds up and I’m falling. Metal and rubber connect with flesh, then a tree catches my shoulder and my head hits the ground.
As pain shoots through my body, two thoughts float through my mind: at least it’s the opposite shoulder from my last crash, and the snow is really cold.
A flurry of shouts fill the air. I’m lying on my side, my lower body still on the trail, tangled in more bikes than just my own, while my back rests against a tree. A pile of bikes blocks the trail and at least a dozen people are standing around me and the other riders who fell.
“I hit a tree,” I say. I start laughing, and pain shoots from my shoulder down my side.
Several heads turn my way.
“She’s delirious!” a woman shouts.
“No, no.” I wave them off and wince. “It’s my biggest fear. And I lived.”
The woman doesn’t seem convinced that I’m okay. She kneels over me, her brows furrowed, and holds up three fingers. “How many—”
“Three,” I cut her off. “Really, I’m okay.” I push myself to a sitting position and wiggle my extremities. My shoulder hurts the most, followed by a searing pain in my left leg. But nothing seems broken.
She extends her hand and pulls me to my feet. “Then let’s get this cleared up so we can finish the race!”
Other riders carry their bikes around the carnage, including most of the people I passed. Self-pity washes over me—even though I never imagined I’d win, this guarantees it—but I push it away. Like Mica said, just being here and finishing is what it’s all about.
My bike’s at the bottom of the pile, so I brush the snow from my clothes and double-check my injuries while people retrieve their bikes. My fingers run over my leggings and come away bloody and I’m almost afraid to look. I pull up the bottom and the sight of the cut makes me gasp. Wiping my face, I look more closely. If it’s really bad I shouldn’t ride anymore. But it doesn’t seem deep, just long. I tug my leggings back into place and untangle my bike from the guy’s with the gear issues.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“No worries,” I say. “But maybe let me start in front of you.”
He nods, and I throw my leg over my bike. I’m not sure where this determination came from, but I’ll finish this race if it kills me.
My pack—the group who fell and is now riding a bit slower than before—sticks together for the rest of the course. I try not to think of my leg, which based on the blood now seeping into my shoe, is still bleeding, and concentrate on the rider in front of me and the trail underneath. There’s no way I’m winning anything now, but that’s okay. I’m going to finish.
We crest the top of a hill and one by one, head back down. “This is the last hill!” someone up ahead shouts. In an unspoken agreement, we all speed up, eager to get to the finish. The trail levels out and gets a bit wider, and the sounds of cheers and shouts carry through the trees. A final burst of adrenaline pumps through me, but I stay where I am in the group. If I were closer to the front it might be worth passing, but my legs are burning and I don’t want to risk falling again to be thirty-ninth instead of fortieth.
But that doesn’t mean other people have given up. Even though we’re riding two-wide, riders from farther back come barreling down the hill.
“On your left! On your left!”
The woman next to me tightens the space between us and I move closer to the edge of the trail. Leaves and low plants brush my arm and leg, and I have to duck to avoid smacking my head on a branch.
When they pass, she moves back over. “That’s enough of that,” she says, and I smile.
Another rider approaches, but she doesn’t let him pass and he falls in line behind her.
The distant cheers grow louder, then the trail makes a wide looping turn and there they are. Hundreds of people jump and wave their arms, the clang of cowbells ringing in the trees, but I’m focused on the bright orange spray paint that crosses the trail. The finish line.
“Nice work,” the woman next to me says. She’s breathing heavily but doesn’t break her stride.
“You too!”
“Be sure to get that looked at.”
“I will.” I want to look down, but I don’t. The finish line is just twenty yards away.
Ten.
Five.
A swarm of butterflies not unlike what I felt when Mica asked if he could kiss me fills me from the inside and carries me over the finish line. I feel like I’m floating. I did it! Maybe it wasn’t as on my own as I thought it’d be—people definitely helped along the way—but I finished the race.
The other riders dismount and start walking their bikes, so I step to the ground and my leg buckles. I cling to the handlebars to stay standing, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Someone shoves a paper cup of water in my face so I grab it and try to drink, but my hands are shaking too bad.
“You okay?” someone asks.
I nod.
The bike corral can’t be far.
Then I can find everyone.
And rest.
Or I could just sit down here for a minute.
My legs give out and I slump to the ground, the cup of water splashing around me. My hands slip from the handlebars and land on the crossbar. I cling to it like a lifeline.
What’s wrong with me?
“Hey, we need a medic!” Strong hands touch my shoulder, but it’s like they’re holding someone else and I’m just watching from the ground.
“Mike!”
I recognize this voice.
But I’m too tired.
Can’t open my eyes.
Familiar arms slide under my legs and around my back, then I’m weightless. Like right before I hit the tree.
“Like the tree,” I whisper.
“Mike, what’s wrong?” Mica’s voice is close and I snuggle into his arms. He’s so strong. I press my hand to his chest and am surprised to see that my hand’s red.
“Why’s it red?”
I’m still in Mica’s arms, but now I’m bouncing, like he’s jumping.
“Hold still,” I say. “Too much jiggling.” I giggle. Jiggling is a funny word.
“I’m taking you to the med tent.” His voice sounds funny. Not jiggle funny, and not salesman Mica funny.
“Not the salesman.”
“Mike, what happened?”
I try to smile. “Finished the race.” I try to pump my fist but my arms feel like they’re filled with sand so I keep them tucked against my chest. “Tired now.”
“How did you get hurt?”
The crash. That’s right! “I finally hit a tree.”
“Jesus.”
The jiggling stops. Low voices are all around me. They sound worried, like Dad does when I don’t apply myself.
Now I’m in bed and the warmth from Mica’s body is gone. “Mica,” I call, and his hand covers the side of my neck.
“I’m right here.”
“Sweetie, what happened?”
“Mom?” How did she get here?
“Dad’s here, too.”
“Hey, pumpkin.” He hasn’t called me that since I was ten.
My leggings are tugged up my leg but it doesn’t hurt as much as I expect it to.
“We need to cut these,” a serious voice says.
“But I love them.” I try to sit up but several hands push me back down.
“We’ll get you more,” Mom says.
“Mike,” Mica’s voice is close to my ear again and I smile. “Can you tell us what happened?”
The race. “I passed people.”
“I knew you could. What else?”
I try to remember but my head feels like it slammed in
to— “Oh. We crashed. Lots of bikes.” It takes all my effort to lift my hand and touch my head. My helmet’s gone. “Tree caught me.”
There’s a gasp and the voices around me lower. I can’t understand them. I make out one word—concussion—but it’s like they’re speaking another language and I forgot to study my verbs and really it’d be easier to take a nap.
“So tired.”
“Mike.” Dad’s voice is firm. “We need you to try to stay awake, okay?”
“Just a quick nap.”
“Not right now.” There’s a quiver to his voice and I force myself to open my eyes. Mom, Dad, and Mica are all staring at me. Mom looks like she’s been crying, Dad’s face is more serious than I’ve ever seen it, and Mica… my heart flip flops.
“You’re so hot,” I whisper to him.
He smiles that adorable smile that makes me want to kiss him, but he doesn’t come any closer. “You’re kind of a mess right now.”
“Stupid tree.”
“But you finished.”
I smile. “I did.”
“I knew you would.”
My eyes drift to his chest. There’s a number pinned to his shirt, just like mine, and there’s blood on it. But he wasn’t in my race. Why is it so hard to think? “You haven’t raced yet?”
He shakes his head.
I try to sit up again but he holds me in place. His hands are so warm. “I love it when you touch me.”
Mom’s mouth opens and Dad’s head whips to Mica. Oh shit, did I say that out loud?
“I mean, you need to go.”
Mica’s face is so red he probably wants to run out of here and never look back, but he doesn’t move. “Topher’s gonna get me when it’s our heat.”
“Topher.” That’s another funny word.
“He’s outside. So’s Alex and Kurt and your friend Hannah.”
“Hannah. And Topher.” I smile. They should get together. “She can be the peanut butter to his banana.”
He snorts. “I don’t think I want to know what that means.”
My fingers brush his shorts and I tug on a pocket. “Make sure they meet.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay, folks. I need a little space here.” A man with plastic gloves and a shirt that says MEDIC stands at the end of the cot. There’s something shiny in his hand. Mom and Dad step away but I grab Mica’s arm.
The Trail Rules Page 24