by Jeff Stone
I thought about when I was temporarily paralyzed by dragon bone. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be in Peter’s shoes, or his friends’.
“You are very inspiring,” Hú Dié said.
“Just living life,” Peter said.
He started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, using a lever mounted on the steering wheel column to control both the gas and brakes. Riding with him didn’t feel any different from riding with my mother.
“I live quite close to the airport,” Peter said. “We should be there in less than twenty minutes. Do you guys have any questions?”
Jake cleared his throat. “I do, but you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”
“You’re wondering what happened to my legs.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t mind talking about it,” Peter said. “I was road racing in the rain. I was at the head of the peloton, and I’d just fallen off—that is, I moved off to the side to allow one of my teammates to take the lead—when he hit a pothole. He went down, along with me and twenty other guys. I think we were doing close to thirty miles per hour at the time. Several guys suffered broken limbs, and I broke my back.”
“Whoa,” Jake said. “When was that?”
“Sixteen years ago. I don’t remember much about it; one minute, I was swerving to avoid my teammate, and the next I was in a hospital unable to move my legs.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hú Dié said.
“Don’t be,” Peter replied. “It was just one of those things. People die in races every year, even pros on the big tours. I won’t say that I was lucky, but I will say that I was fortunate. Although things might have ended up differently if my teammate would have simply shouted ‘hole’ before he hit it. This is why it’s so important to learn to communicate while riding, especially if you plan on drafting. Safety needs to come first. Competition is second.” He paused. “Ryan’s mother told me that you guys were drafting a couple days ago, in the rain, no less. If I see any one of you doing that before I teach you how to do it properly, I’ll send you all home. Got it?”
“Got it,” we all said.
“Good,” Peter said. “Now that that is out of the way, let’s talk about something more fun—your bikes. They arrived earlier today. They’re in my garage.”
“How many boxes?” Hú Dié asked.
“Three. I didn’t open them, but based on the size, one looks like bike frames, one is probably wheels, and the last one is gear.”
“Three is the magic number,” Hú Dié said. “I packed the boxes myself.”
I couldn’t wait to open the boxes. Uncle Tí had given Hú Dié a tiny vial of dragon bone to include in the shipment, and she’d stuffed it into my bike’s hollow seat post. It wasn’t the greatest hiding place, but it was better than my trying to sneak the dragon bone onto our airplane.
“Oh, my,” Hú Dié said suddenly.
“Sweet!” Jake said.
I glanced out the window and grinned. The strip malls and residential neighborhoods we’d been driving past disappeared, replaced by meadows of rolling hills. A canopy of trees covered the road. We drove over a stone bridge, and I caught a glimpse of the sea down a steep slope to our right. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.
“Nice scenery,” Phoenix said, “but where are we supposed to ride? This road is pretty narrow, and we’re right on the edge of a cliff.”
“That’s a surprise I’m saving for tomorrow morning,” Peter said. “It’s not far, and it’s quite safe. If you like it here, you’ll love it there.”
We slowed and turned onto a side road, bouncing along pockmarked asphalt that rose and fell between towering eucalyptus trees. Peter lowered his window, and I could hear and smell the ocean. We drove around a sharp bend, and surf crashed against rocks just a few feet from the pavement. The only thing separating us from the sea foam was a knee-high stone railing. The other side of the narrow road didn’t have a shoulder, either, just a tall hill of solid rock.
“I am speechless,” Hú Dié said.
“I’m not!” Jake said. “This is the coolest! Wow!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Peter said. “I have a small place just up this next hill.”
The van climbed the steep slope, and we pulled into Peter’s driveway. He hit the button on his garage door opener, and the door began to rise.
“Look at that!” Hú Dié exclaimed. “I might never go into the house!”
Peter had converted his garage into a small machine shop where he built custom handcycles for himself and others. Tools and machines were neatly arranged atop a series of low workbenches. Cycles in different stages of completion hung from winches attached to the ceiling.
Peter turned to Hú Dié. “You like to look at mechanical things?”
Phoenix laughed. “She likes to build mechanical things. She has the craziest bike I’ve ever seen. She even named it: Trixie.”
“Really?” Peter said. “Ryan’s mother told me that you and your father owned a bike shop, but she didn’t mention that your employees actually build them.”
Hú Dié flashed her brilliant smile. “I build them.”
“You assemble everything yourself?” Peter asked.
“Yes. I fabricate the frames, too. We have tube benders and a TIG welder. I even paint the frames.”
“You bend steel?”
“Sometimes,” Hú Dié said. “Most of our customers want aluminum, though. It is so much lighter.”
“It sure is,” Peter said. “Do you know how to weld aluminum?”
“Sure. It took a few years to get the hang of it. Now I weld aluminum for other people, too. Not a lot of people know how to do it.”
“I got that,” Peter said. “I’ve been trying for years, but I still keep blowing holes in my frames. I end up spending a fortune to have my bikes welded by someone else, and a lot of times they don’t even get it right.”
“I can teach you how to do it,” Hú Dié offered.
“Really?”
She nodded. “Although it is going to cost you.”
“Oh?”
“I want to ride one of your handcycles.”
“Is that all?” Peter said. “Come on, then. You can try one right now! I want to close this deal before you change your mind.”
We unloaded our luggage; then Phoenix, Jake, Peter, and I waited inside the garage while Hú Dié disappeared into the house. She soon reappeared wearing our new “team” cycling jersey and padded riding bib shorts, as well as new white socks and racing shoes. She pulled her long black hair into a ponytail and shook out her legs, stretching them. Her thighs rippled like the shoulders of a powerful feline.
“You know you won’t be using your legs at all with this handcycle, right?” Peter asked.
“Yes,” Hú Dié said. “I just feel a little stiff after the plane ride.”
I rolled my eyes. She wanted to show off her muscles to Peter.
Peter pointed to two cycles he’d lowered from the ceiling. Both were hand-powered trikes with three wheels, but one was low to the ground with two wheels in back and one in front, while the other was higher and had one wheel in back and two in front. The higher one also had knobby off-road tires and a seat that appeared to have long armrests.
“Which one would you like to try?” Peter asked.
“Both!” Hú Dié said.
Peter laughed. “All right, but you can only ride one at a time.”
“I’ll ride the other one,” Jake said.
“Not before I get a chance,” I said. “He’s my cousin.”
“You can all have a turn,” Peter said. “Let’s get Hú Dié squared away first.”
“Thank you,” Hú Dié said, eyeing both bikes. “One is for off-road, and the other is for riding on pavement, yes?”
“That’s right,” Peter said. “The low one with the single wheel in front is a road cycle. You sit in it like a regular chair. The higher one is a mountain cycle. See those things that l
ook like armrests on the mountain cycle? They’re actually for your legs. You kneel on them. There is also a pad to rest your chest against.”
“I will try the mountain handcycle first,” Hú Dié said. “I like road riding, but I enjoy mountain biking more.”
“Sounds good. The mountain cycle is better suited for the crumbling asphalt of my neighborhood streets, anyway. I can’t wait for them to be resurfaced.”
Hú Dié climbed onto the mountain cycle, and Peter strapped her in, binding her ankles and bent legs to the cycle’s frame. If she crashed, she’d stay attached to the bike.
“You’ll notice the hand crank arms on this cycle are set a hundred eighty degrees apart, like on a regular bicycle,” Peter said. “Your arms will work in opposition, just like your legs work in opposition on a regular bike. You can lift yourself to absorb bumps by straightening your elbows slightly, just like you’d rise up out of your saddle on a regular bike by straightening your knees a little.”
Hú Dié glanced at the road handcycle. “Those hand cranks are different.”
“That’s right,” Peter said. “The cranks on that cycle are parallel with one another. Your arms go around in unison. Parallel cranks help you go faster over flat ground because you can really get your torso behind each revolution. However, cranks set a hundred eighty degrees apart are better for climbing because you’re providing continuous power. There aren’t any dead spots in your stroke.”
“Makes sense,” Hú Dié said. “Where are the brakes, and how do you steer this thing?”
“Both types of cycles have brake levers and gear shifters mounted to the hand cranks. To steer the road cycle, you turn the hand cranks like a steering wheel. On this mountain cycle, the chest support does the steering. You simply lean in the direction you want to go, kind of like riding a motorcycle.”
“I understand,” Hú Dié said.
“Ryan,” Peter said, “see if you can find the helmets in the smallest of those three boxes that came from Indiana.”
I opened the box and tossed Hú Dié her helmet. She strapped it on.
“Be careful,” Peter told her. “Trikes seem like they’d be more stable than a two-wheeled cycle, but they aren’t. If you lean too far the wrong way into a turn, you’re going to flip.”
“I know what you mean,” Hú Dié said. “I have built a few large delivery trikes for customers in China. I will be fine.”
Hú Dié began to turn the cranks, and her taut biceps and triceps bulged out of nowhere as she made her way up the sloped driveway toward the road.
Peter glanced at me. “That girl is a rock.”
“Actually, she’s steel.” Jake laughed. “Her name means Iron Butterfly in Chinese. Whatever you do, don’t bump fists with her.”
“I heard that!” Hú Dié shouted as she crested the driveway and turned right, heading up the hill.
I nodded at the road cycle. “Can I try that one now? I don’t need to change my clothes.”
“Be my guest,” Peter said.
“Come on, bro,” Jake whined. “Let me go next.”
“Fat chance,” I said as I put on my riding gloves and helmet.
“Promise me you’ll take it easy,” Peter said. “It’s a bit more squirrely than the mountain cycle.”
“Just like a regular road bike,” Phoenix muttered.
“That’s right,” Peter said. “It goes with the territory. Speed comes at a price.”
I climbed onto the bike and was surprised how comfortable it felt. The backrest went all the way up to my head. Peter strapped me in, one seat belt–like strap going around my waist while separate straps went around each ankle.
“This is my personal racing bike,” Peter said. “You and I are about the same height, and our arms are about the same length. It should feel pretty good to you.”
“It does,” I said. “I could probably take a nap on this thing.”
“Not while you’re riding, you won’t.”
“I’m kidding.”
“I know, but you need to be constantly aware on any bike, especially this one. You’re very close to the ground, and I haven’t outfitted it with a flag because I only ride it in races. Cars will have a difficult time seeing you.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I said. “I promise.”
“All right,” Peter said. “You want me to give you a push up the driveway? This thing climbs like a two-ton snail.”
“Naw,” I said. “If a girl can do it, so can I.”
Peter chuckled. “If you say so.”
“Hurry back, Beefcake,” Jake said. “I want my turn.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Beefcake?”
“Never mind,” I said.
I began to crank, my hands revolving in unison. It was a strange sensation. It was more like rowing a boat than pedaling a bike. It was also hard work. I broke a sweat halfway to the top of the driveway, and by the time I reached the street, I smelled like the inside of a dragon bone container. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I wasn’t ready to tell Peter or Jake about the substance yet. I was going to have to buy some stronger deodorant, or maybe some cologne.
“Nice work!” Peter called out. “I guess those big guns of yours are good for something!”
I raised my hand and waved, but unfortunately the hand I’d raised also controlled the only brake lever. The bike veered left and began to roll down the steep street. Fast.
“Oh, crap!” I said. I found the brake lever and began to feather it, but it was too late. I had too much speed. I squeezed the brake lever hard, and the cycle began to skid.
“Ryan, look out!” Hú Dié shouted from somewhere behind me. She must have turned around and was now heading down the hill, too.
Ahead of me, a car was coming around the bend at the very bottom of the hill, between the stone seawall and the hillside.
I released the brake lever and turned the cycle hard in an effort to stop my skid.
Bad idea.
The trike toppled over and careened into the rocky hillside. My head smacked against the headrest, knocking my helmet over my eyes. I saw stars and tasted blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue.
The trike somehow righted itself, and I scrambled for the brake lever, my helmet still over my eyes. I found the cranks, but the brake lever was no longer attached. I tried to throw myself free of the cycle, but I was solidly strapped in. The driver honked, and I heard tires squeal.
I was low enough to the ground that I could press my hands against the street, so I did. The padded palms of my riding gloves snagged and skittered over the rough asphalt as I pushed by entire body weight against my arms, but it was no use. In fact, it made matters worse. The cycle began to wobble, and it toppled over again as I reached the bend in the road.
I hit the low stone wall with a THUMP and the world went black.
“Are you alive?” I recognized Hú Dié’s voice.
I opened my eyes to find her and a stranger staring down at me. I blinked, and Hú Dié smiled.
“Just a flash knockout,” Hú Dié said. “He’ll be fine.”
“We don’t know that,” the stranger said. It was a middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Ms.… Bettis?” I said.
“That’s right,” Ms. Bettis replied. “Peter told me that you were coming to visit, but I hardly recognize you. You’ve … grown.”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting my weight so that I could unstrap myself from the custom racing handcycle that I’d just demolished.
“No, no! Don’t move!” Ms. Bettis said. “I need to call an ambulance.”
I thought about how dragon bone made me heal like a mutant, as Jake had said. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth and realized that it wasn’t bleeding anymore. My gloves were shredded and appeared to be bloodstained, but my palms were dry. I balled my fists to hide the stains. The last thing I needed was anyone, especially paramedics, freaking out over my instant healing.
“I’m okay,”
I said, pushing myself up onto one elbow and quickly releasing the strap around my waist with my thumbs. “See?”
I unstrapped my ankles and rolled away from the trike. I stood, and my abdomen began to cramp. I didn’t want Ms. Bettis to see me in pain, so I bent over and pretended to scratch my stomach.
“Feels like I’ve got a little road rash on my torso,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. “All I need is a shower, and I’ll be good as new.”
“Are you sure?” Ms. Bettis asked.
“Positive. You live next door to Peter; come check on me anytime.”
“I guess—” she said.
Ms. Bettis was interrupted by Jake and Phoenix hurrying down the street. Peter was ahead of them on a mountain cycle similar to the one Hú Dié was riding. He eased down the steep slope with far more agility and control than Jake and Phoenix, who were jogging in awkward, loping strides.
“Ryan!” Peter called out. “Are you okay? Why are you hunched over?”
“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just a little road rash on my stomach.”
“Whoa,” Jake said, stopping before me. “Look at his brain bucket. It’s toast.”
“Good thing I’ve got a hard head to go along with a solid helmet,” I said.
“You don’t look so great,” Peter said. “Kind of pale. Do you have double vision?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “How many of me do you see?”
“Fortunately, only one,” I said.
Jake laughed.
“He sounds fine to me,” Phoenix said. “He looks normal, too. Or as normal as an overdeveloped teenager can. The handcycle, not so much.”
“I don’t care about the cycle,” Peter said. “It can be replaced. Ryan can’t. Do you want me to call an ambulance, Ryan?”
“No,” I said. “Ms. Bettis already offered. I’m fine.”