The Adventures of a Girl Called Bicycle

by Christina Uss

  “You think the pigs might’ve pushed the bike out of the truck?” Bicycle asked. “Really?”

  Dan nodded. He took off his baseball hat and held it respectfully against his chest. Then with a brief “I guess that’s that” kind of grunt, he replaced his hat, got in the driver’s seat, and drove out of the parking lot.

  I suppose that’s all I’ll ever know about Dan the grunting truck driver, Bicycle thought. He would make a great Mostly Silent Monk.

  Bicycle went inside to talk to the distribution manager. He sat at a small desk, adding up numbers on a calculator. She cleared her throat.

  The manager, whose name tag said ON DUTY: MR. PITTSBURG, looked up and smiled. “What can I do for you this evening, miss?”

  Bicycle smiled back, trying to look as nice as possible. “Hello, sir, I came in the truck with Dan. Estrella from Marquez Pigs in Green Marsh sent me. It looks like my bike fell—well, maybe got pushed out of the back of the truck somewhere back in Missouri, so I’m hoping you can help me find a way to head west.”

  Mr. Pittsburg shook his head. “West, you say? Sorry, Midway Station is used exclusively for eastern deliveries and distributions. Nothing from here goes west toward the Rocky Mountains. In fact, I’ve never been west of this spot in my life. Let’s see…” He thumbed through a calendar on his desk. “I could get you a ride to Ohio tomorrow if you like, or”—he thumbed some more—“to South Carolina on Friday.”

  Bicycle ignored the tiny claws of anxiety seeking to climb up her throat. “Is there someone else in town who might be able to help?”

  Mr. Pittsburg bunched his lips together in a regretful way. “There isn’t much of a town to speak of. We just have the general store here, a gas station, and the delivery pens. That’s the extent of it.”

  Bicycle said, “Let me make sure I understand. No town. No trucks. No way west.” The anxiety clawed its way farther up her throat, and she swallowed hard.

  Mr. Pittsburg nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. There is a train station about fifty miles away. I’d take you myself, but I don’t have a car. I live right around back of the gas station, and I never did learn to drive.” He bunched up his lips again, thinking. “Are you hungry? I know I feel better on a full stomach. Got a hammock out back; it’s a good place for a snack. Help yourself to anything you like.” He gestured to the racks of canned and packaged foods. “On the house. Then let me know if you’d like that ride to Ohio.”

  The door jingled as another customer walked in. Mr. Pittsburg started talking delivery business with him, leaving Bicycle to contemplate her situation.

  Stuck in Midway Station, Kansas. According to her cycling maps, she’d covered almost half the distance to California. She started pacing up and down the aisles, wondering if the universe was once again trying to tell her to give up and go home. She noticed a bag of assorted cookies. She thought of her promise to the Cookie Lady, and decided it couldn’t hurt to eat a dozen cookies and think about what to do. She took the cookies and her backpack and went out the back door, where she saw the hammock tied up between two cottonwood trees surrounded by a picket fence. The moon was beginning to rise as she climbed into the hammock.

  Bicycle tore open the bag and ate one lemon cookie. Universe, if you’re trying to tell me to give up, I don’t agree. She ate an oatmeal ring and a jam-filled sandwich cookie. Besides, it might not even be the universe that’s trying to tell me to give up, only Estrella’s pigs. I’m not letting a bunch of pigs tell me what I can and can’t do. She chewed a peanut butter swirl. Things could be worse. I’m not in danger, not lost. The one thing stopping me right now is a lack of wheels. I know where I need to go, right down this road. There’s a train station fifty miles away. Maybe I could get that far somehow. She popped two chocolate chip cookies in her mouth. Hey, I’ve still got legs. If I can bike fifty miles down a road, I guess I can walk fifty miles down a road to the train station. Maybe I have enough money left for a train ticket, or maybe I can talk a train conductor into giving me a ride to California. She ate another six cookies, feeling more resolved and more relaxed with every bite. That Cookie Lady knows her stuff, she thought. Cookies do help put a sweeter perspective on things. She yawned, and before the moon was up she was fast asleep in the hammock, crumbs festooning her shirt.

  Morning came with the snorting of pigs from the delivery pens. Bicycle washed up in the store’s restroom and shouldered her backpack. She went in to tell Mr. Pittsburg that she was going to head out on foot, half expecting him to try to talk her out of it. She’d met a few people in her travels who thought it was ridiculous to try bicycling across the country, and walking fifty miles through Kansas would probably seem one step past ridiculous and well into preposterous.

  Instead, he shook her hand and wished her well. “Boy, I wonder what’s west of here?” he mused out loud. “Canyons, rivers, gorilla farms? Could be darn near anything, for all I know. Listen, could you do me a favor? When you make it to the train station, maybe you can send me a note and let me know what you’ve seen? I’d love to get a postcard from the west.” He gave her a book of stamps, a handful of blank white postcards, several bottles of water, and a corn muffin in a cellophane wrapper.

  Bicycle started walking on the side of the road facing the oncoming traffic. She remembered how her first day biking had felt so great and wondered if she would have a similar experience today.

  After two hours of walking, she had her answer: no. Her feet hurt, and her back and shoulders were tired from carrying her backpack. She trudged with one hand over her eyes, shielding her face from the sun, looking down the road. She’d been walking next to sunflower fields, and as far as she could tell, she hadn’t made much progress. In front of her: a strip of road rolling flat as far as she could see. To the left of her: nothing but sunflowers. To the right of her: nothing but sunflowers. And behind her: sunflowers, sunflowers, and more sunflowers. She couldn’t see the general store at Midway Station any longer. No cars had passed her yet. Except for the road, she felt alone on a planet populated by nothing but sunflowers. “I’ll never take wheels for granted again,” she grumbled.

  To cheer herself up, she started eating things out of her backpack as she plodded along. She ate the corn muffin. Then a tapioca-muffin fried pie. Then two chicken-noodle fried pies and a chocolate cream surprise. She saved the rest of Jeremiah’s pies and took long pulls from her water bottles to wash down the last crumbly bits of the beef jerky she’d brought all the way from Washington, D.C. She wiped her mouth and felt less cheerful than she’d hoped and more ready for a nap.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky. Even with the extra bottles of water from Mr. Pittsburg, she was starting to run low on moisture. If she didn’t come upon a town or a farm soon, she was going to get thirsty in a hurry. Maybe it’ll rain? she hoped, scanning the sky. Vast blue without even a whisper of a cloud. She poured a little water on her head to cool off and kept putting one foot in front of the other.

  The sun hit its peak and started to sink toward the horizon. The road was pointed due west, so Bicycle now had the sun shining directly into her face. She felt like it was bleaching out the back of her eyeballs. The sunflowers rustled and shifted in a slight breeze, and Bicycle could almost see their big seed-filled heads turn to follow the sun in the sky. Clearly, sunflowers loved living in Kansas—the plants were healthy and green, and most were taller than Bicycle herself. Taking a break, she found a bit of shadow between the thick rows of flowers and sat on the warm earth to finish her water.

  As she was sitting there, a blue sports car with a rumbling motor flew by. It was going so fast that the sunflowers bowed and rustled in the wake of its passing. The driver slammed on the brakes with a screech and, to Bicycle’s surprise, took a sharp turn right into the sunflower field ahead of her. She sprang up and limped (her feet were really hurting now) to where the sports car had turned. There, cut through the flowers, was a skinny dirt road. A carved wooden sign marked the turn with the words ALVARADO EST
ATE. A smaller hand-printed paper had been taped to the signpost to announce ESTATE SALE TODAY. Bicycle downed the very last dregs of her water. Whatever the Alvarado Estate was, she hoped they wouldn’t object to her refilling her bottles. She started up the dirt road.

  Bicycle followed the road deep into the sunflower field and was beginning to wonder if it went anywhere when it opened up to a lawn in front of a large house. More of a castle than a house, I suppose, thought Bicycle, since the building had elaborate turrets and walkways. It even had a moat and a wooden drawbridge. The blue sports car was parked outside the drawbridge, as were other fancy vehicles like Rolls-Royces and limousines. Bicycle crossed the drawbridge into an open courtyard.

  “We have a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bid for this twelfth-century jade-and-emerald wastebasket. Do I hear six hundred thousand? I’ve got six! Do I hear seven? The bid is up to seven hundred and fifty thousand with the gentleman in the back. Going once, going twice…Sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” A tall, stiff-necked man in a tuxedo knocked a hammer on a gavel in an authoritative manner. “We’ll move on to the next item, a carved Greek marble statue…”

  Bicycle checked out the scene. A dozen folding chairs had been set up in the castle’s courtyard and were filled with elegant people holding numbered paddles. Women wearing silk dresses primly crossed and uncrossed their legs, and men in gray suits adjusted the knots on their dark ties. They seemed bored and lifeless until the man in the tuxedo started the bidding for the statue. Then they raised numbered paddles, flapping them in the air to bid, frowning fiercely at each other as the price got higher and higher.

  On a table over in the corner, Bicycle spied a bowl filled with orange punch and several pitchers of ice water. She made her way over to the table, poured water into a plastic cup, and drank enough to feel sloshy inside. She refilled her water bottles, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t getting any disapproving looks for taking excessive advantage of the free drinks. No one seemed to care. She saw an empty folding chair at the very back of the gathering. Running her hands through her hair and brushing the dust from her clothes, she tried to look like she belonged as she sat down. A young woman came over and brought her a bidding paddle with the number 15 on it in red.

  “Um, thanks,” Bicycle said, taking the paddle.

  “This next item,” the tuxedo man said, “is quite a…find, indeed. This bicycle…”

  Bicycle sat up and took notice.

  “Has many…interesting features, like…er…wheels, and…this bell.” The auctioneer tapped the handlebar bell and it rang with a silvery jingle.

  The bike’s frame was gracefully shaped, glittering in blue and yellow paint. It even had flames painted on the top tube. Bicycle scrabbled in her backpack and counted up the money she had left.

  “Shall we start the bidding at one thousand dollars?”

  Bicycle groaned.

  No one raised a paddle. One man yawned. Another flicked a fly off his trousers. Bicycle couldn’t believe it.

  “Do I hear one thousand? One thousand, I say? No? Do I hear five hundred, five hundred dollars for this very…ah…unique…piece.” The auctioneer put a finger under his collar and harrumphed. “Made from an unusual metal alloy, the parts for this bike are worth three hundred dollars alone. Do I have a bid for three hundred?” More of the audience was yawning now, and people were getting up for punch. “All right, I’m sure there’s someone interested in this item for two hundred…one fifty…one hundred dollars?”

  Nothing. Bicycle clenched her hands around her bidding paddle.

  The auctioneer shrugged in defeat. “Do I have any bids at all?”

  Bicycle leapt up with her paddle, aching feet forgotten, and yelled, “Seventy-three dollars and twenty-two cents!”

  The crowd turned to stare.

  The auctioneer said, “I have, er, seventy-three dollars and twenty-two cents. Are there any other bids? No?”

  Bicycle looked around, clutching her paddle with white knuckles, terrified that someone was going to jump in and steal the bike out from under her.

  A bony woman in a black dress twitched her bidding paddle thoughtfully, turning toward Bicycle. Her lips were shocking red against her pale face. Her huge sunglasses hid her eyes, but Bicycle could sense the woman’s gaze crawling over her skin like a hungry little snake. Then the woman turned to examine the bike, tapping her red lips with one long fingernail.

  The auctioneer was hurrying along, eager to get to his next wastebasket or marble statue. “Going once, going twice…”

  The woman twitched her paddle again and the auctioneer paused.

  “Miss Monet-Grubbink?”

  Miss Monet-Grubbink slipped off her sunglasses. Her green eyes were as cold and creepy as a swamp in winter. She took a last calculating look between Bicycle and the bike on the auction block, then sneered dismissively and dropped her paddle into her lap.

  The auctioneer said, “Sold to the dusty girl in the last row.” He tapped the gavel lightly and waved someone over to move the bike off the auction block and take it to the payment table.

  Bicycle hurried toward the table, worried the woman in the black dress might realize she’d missed bidding on the best thing at the whole auction and try to sneak it away from her. She plunked her paddle and money down in front of the cash box and said, “I bought the bike.”

  The deeply tanned lady manning the cash box looked down her nose at Bicycle. “Yes. You did.” The lady would have been beautiful if not for the sour look that dominated her face. She picked up the crumpled dollars and handful of coins, placing the money in the cash box, which was nearly full to bursting with hundred-dollar bills from earlier sales. She scrawled out a receipt, pushing it across the table at Bicycle.

  Next to her, an equally tan, slouch-shouldered man with carefully arranged black hair added, “I’m surprised anyone wanted that thing.” He would have been handsome except for the unnaturally tight, smooth skin around his mouth and eyes—it looked like he never smiled and probably couldn’t if he tried. He was filing his nails with a tiny golden file, and he flicked his eyes up momentarily toward Bicycle, focusing on her purple T-shirt with the word BICYCLE in bold letters. “But if anyone would buy it, I suppose it would be someone like you,” he sniffed. A gust of wind blew by, pushing his carefully arranged hair from one side of his head to the other. He smoothed it down and sculpted it back into place.

  Bicycle hardly heard what they were saying as she gazed in delight at the bike. She said, “I had to leave my bike in Missouri and didn’t know what I was going to do. I need to get to California as soon as I can, and this new bike is going to make it possible. It’s terrific luck that it’s here and that I found it when no one else wanted it. Really, incredibly good luck!”

  The slouching man sat up a little straighter. “Luck, you say?” He and the woman exchanged a glance. “Funny you should say that. Our father, the man who built that bike, his name was Luck. Dr. Luck Alvarado.”

  “That name was an obsession with him,” the woman said. “He spent far too much of our—er, his—money studying luck, or fate, or destiny, whatever you want to call it. Trying to understand how you can measure a person’s luck, whether you can alter it, and whether luck somehow controls the path of our lives. What a waste of time! He would have been better off focusing on his inventions.”

  Her brother interjected, “Father did invent things used by every household in the country: the automatic gift-wrapper, the self-propelled pancake-flipper, hedgehog repellent, to name a few. The money from those inventions bought all of this.” He gestured around at the estate.

  Bicycle was intrigued. “Did he ever figure it out? About whether luck controls the path of our lives, I mean.”

  The man slouched back in his seat and started filing his nails again. “Who knows? Father disappeared almost three years ago, just after he finished building that bike. He thought he could program it to collect data about luck. Ridiculous. We haven’t seen him since.
” He pretended to pout with sadness, but he cheered up as he eyed the full cash box. “We figured we’d have a little sale here, get rid of some old things. Spring cleaning, really, and what’s the harm in making some money in the process? Father would have wanted it that way.”

  The auction was wrapping up. The final item, a solid bronze statue of a very ugly cat, had been sold, and the remaining auction attendees were getting ready to pay for their items and gathering their belongings to leave.

  The woman grimaced at the blue-and-yellow bicycle. “I’m glad this thing is sold. I know Father was fond of it, but it seems so useless to me. Why else were cars invented?” Bicycle couldn’t comprehend how the woman could look at the bike as though it had no value at all. Emblazoned on the side of the frame was a name in gold: WHEELS OF FORTUNE 713-J. “Should we wrap it up for you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Bicycle answered. “I’ll ride it like it is.” She couldn’t wait to get in the saddle and pedal the beautiful thing. She slipped her water bottles into the bike’s bottle cages, secured her pack to its built-in rear rack, and stroked its smooth leather seat.

  “Fine,” the woman said, dismissing her as she started to collect payments. “Good luck with it—if you believe in luck.” She and the slump-shouldered man shared a nasty laugh.

  Bicycle was going to thank them but then thought better of it. She was so eager to leave, she didn’t notice until she wheeled the bike past it that the bony woman in black had been hiding behind a tall potted plant, listening to the whole conversation.

  The dirt road from the estate was bumpy and rutted, so Bicycle had some trouble maneuvering the Wheels of Fortune 713-J until she coasted out of the sunflower field and back onto pavement. She pointed the front tire west and started pedaling. The bike leapt forward, tires spinning like they were powered by some unseen engine. “Wheee!” shouted Bicycle. The frame of this bike was thirty or forty pounds lighter than Clunk’s frame. With Clunk, she’d sometimes felt as if she were dragging an invisible suitcase full of rocks along behind her. With this bike, someone had cut the suitcase free.