She looks at me, then at Rei. She shakes her head, clucking her tongue, sliding her phone away.
“Screwed-up country, kids afraid to call 911 because of medical bills. Okay, as long as it’s not serious, your friend can drive you. Take off your helmet.”
I do as she says. She turns my head to the side, looking at the spot I think I’m bleeding from. It’s along my chin. I must have bumped it. She grabs a bandanna from her pocket and puts it over the spot. “Hold it there. Press hard. Can you keep your head still and follow my finger with your eyes?” she asks. She makes me shrug my shoulders, touch my nose. She asks about tingling in my hands, whether I feel nauseous, and a hundred other tasks I perform like my life depends on it.
“What’s your name?” she asks at last.
“Miho,” I say.
“Miho what?”
“Miho Embarrassed-As-Hell.”
“That’s good. If your pride’s broken, you probably didn’t break much else. What were you doing before you got hit by the car?” she asks.
“What?” I ask. Am I in trouble for even being here?
“Concussions cause memory loss,” X explains. “Tell her about the expo.”
“You were here for the convention?” she asks. “You the triathlete, or a friend?”
“It’s me, yes,” I say with as much confidence as I have ever mustered. A very expensive ambulance is riding on this. “I’ve been training for my first Ironman. Well, sort of an Ironman.” She looks at me like she thinks I might have hit my head pretty hard after all, despite my excellent finger-following skills. “Well, see, my friends and I are putting on our own Ironman because the race is so expensive. So technically, it’s an Iron-length race. Except I think my bike…” I look at X. He looks over his shoulder, then shakes his head. “I might be screwed. I think my bike is trashed.”
“What kind of bike do you have?”
“I don’t even know,” I say. Then I realize my mistake. “Not, like, I don’t know because I have a concussion. I don’t know because it was painted so many times. It was secondhand.” What could I say that would convince her I’m thinking clearly? My whole brain sparks to life. “My dream bike, though, is a Corneille road bike. I like the R-450 pro, particularly. I know I’d be more aerodynamic on a time trial bike, but a road bike is more versatile. Based on what I’ve read, clip-on aero bars are nearly as good, and then I can ride it out with my friends for fun, instead of only for triathlon. If I could only have one bike, that would be it.”
“Smart thinking, for a first-timer,” she says. “People spend so much money on a tri bike, it’s perverse.”
“I know. How can a Cervélo P5X cost more than a car?”
“Eh. Luxury sports. It’s a love/hate relationship,” she says. “Tell me you wouldn’t ride the hell out of it if you had the chance, though, right?”
“True.”
“I’d prefer a deluxe Ventum. Custom paint, integrated storage, featherlight.” She sighs. “Truth is, you can only buy so much speed. When you get right down to it, it’s all about putting in the time. I’d buy myself more training time over a fancy bike any day. First time I placed in my age group, I was riding an old lugged steel frame from the seventies.”
“For the full?”
“Half.”
“So concussion?” Rei asks impatiently. It makes me weirdly happy that she has no idea what we’re talking about.
“You’re okay,” the woman says. “Now, you’re going straight to a doctor, yes?”
“Yes,” Rei and I say.
“You might need stitches,” she says. “But you’ll live to bike another day.”
chapter twenty-five
Dad meets us at the clinic. I make him wait with Rei and X. He barely says anything, not there, not on the way home.
I don’t need stitches. I get some weird glue put on the cut to close it up. It wasn’t half as bad as it looked; mostly grass stains. My helmet took most of it. My bike did not fare so well. The front fork is destroyed. One of the wheels is missing and the other is bent. The top tube is clearly cracked in half. I think if I’d been on a carbon frame, it might have shattered. It’s a miracle I landed in the grass and rolled. I shiver thinking about what would have happened if I’d hit the pavement.
Dad puts the bike in the back of the pickup. Even I have to admit it’s not worth fixing.
At home, I take my bloody bandanna and set it on my desk. It’s printed with flowers and bike wheels. Even though I’m not concussed, I’m not feeling awesome. No tri club for me. Not without a bike. No pizza deliveries. No race.
The whole house creaks, and I know from the groaning floor that all my uncles are right outside my door.
“Miho?” Mr. Bu asks from outside. I steel myself and open the door. My room is too small to invite them in. We stand awkwardly.
“We’re sorry about your accident,” Mr. Oshiro says.
“But don’t you worry. We are going to go right out and get you a new bike. A better one than before,” Mr. Kalani says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. And then, because I can’t help myself, I ask: “How?”
“Well…we haven’t figured that out yet,” Mr. Oshiro says. “But we will. A really nice one. We promise.”
“Thank you,” I say. They have no idea what a nice bike is, because if they knew, they wouldn’t make a promise I know they can’t keep. But it’s my best shot, and I’m grateful.
“We’ll let you rest,” Mr. Bu says. They shuffle away toward the door, whispering. Once the screen door closes, I hear Dad approaching.
“Dad, I’m going to bed. My brain hurts.”
“Did your uncles tell you?”
“About what?”
“The bike,” he says. “And anything else you need. New helmet. Whatever got broken.”
I smile despite myself.
“So all it takes to wring money out of you is a hit-and-run?”
“Miho—”
“No, it’s fine. I know we can’t afford it.”
Dad’s jaw drops, but he closes it. He crosses his arms.
“You listen to me, my flower. If your uncles say that there will be a bike at this race, there will be a bike at this race. You keep training. Don’t worry about the bike,” he says. “And don’t you ever, ever let me hear that you didn’t call an ambulance when you were hurt. Ever. If it’s an emergency, you call a goddamn ambulance. You go straight to the hospital. Do you hear me?”
“But it would have cost a thousand dollars!”
“Then I would have paid a thousand dollars.”
“You don’t have a thousand dollars!”
“I don’t care about the money, Miho! Do you know how much it scares me that you hesitated?”
“I’m sorry!”
“No. I’m sorry. Because I thought I was clear. Your life matters so much more to me than debt. Don’t you ever do that again. I’m sorry I made you feel like we don’t have enough money for the things that matter. So if I have to buy you a helmet, and a triathlon bike, and whatever else you need to do this thing in order to prove that to you, I will find a way to buy those things. Because I cannot believe that you would worry about the cost of an ambulance when it’s a question of your life. That terrifies me.”
We sit in silence for what feels like hours. Except Achilles. He’s totally spoiling the atmosphere of serious family interaction by trying to get Dad to throw something for him, yipping with increasing desperation.
“You don’t have to buy those things,” I say at last. “I’m sorry. But I didn’t need an ambulance. It was a tiny cut.”
“I know. But next time.”
“I promise,” I say.
“Good.”
“I’m going to bed,” I say. Dad turns to go. But when he is halfway down the hall, he shouts after me.
“I’m serious. Don’t you worry about the bike.”
“Good night, Dad,” I say.
“Good night, my flower.”
I close the door.
I slide into bed.
Maybe I should quit.
For a split second it feels so good to give up. My muscles relax as I imagine no more VO2 max sessions, no more hill sprints, no more descending 100s. Everything is one foot in front of another, but eventually, that’s a lot of steps. You get tired.
My phone lights up: X.
“No run tomorrow. 2 days required break for glue according to the internet. No swim until it’s legit healed, but Wyatt is bringing over his swim cord things for dryland swim.”
My legs twitch. I already want it.
“My uncles are trying to find me a bike,” I text back. “But if they can’t…dunno.”
“Trin thinks you can use my brother’s bike. She is working on it. Three other options lined up.”
“Roger that.” In my crew, there are enough sisters and brothers and cousins that there’s got to be something with two wheels. It’s just a bike, after all. All it really has to do is roll.
I take a breath. An unplanned recovery day. Then it’s time for the next step. For now, bed.
The three dots appear.
“Avengers marathon instead?”
“Thin Man,” I insist. “Haven’t done that since we were in middle school.”
“It’s a date.”
chapter twenty-six
Two weeks since the accident. Two weeks before my race. I’m stuck waiting tables every shift because of this idiotic “tapering” thing where you rest before a big race. You’re not supposed to ride so much. I still don’t have a bike, so that’s no problem. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I am aching for a twenty-mile run. Now that I have a fueling strategy and Lani’s candy, running that far makes me feel invincible. I know I shouldn’t, but I sprint hard on my easy runs to burn off some panic. Save it, I tell myself. Save it for the race. But I look at the numbers and my heart flutters in disbelief.
I slide through my easy swims. I do a few loops on X’s brother’s little mountain bike, which is almost my size and the best option we found. I can make this work, I think. It’ll hurt, but I can make it work, if it comes to that.
I’m losing my mind. It’s called “taper madness” because I’m addicted to all those miles. My mind wonders things I know my best self doesn’t care about. I compulsively check the weather. I google so many weather what-ifs that the ads on my phone change to specialized emergency preparedness kits, like the one Mr. Oshiro has hidden away for the apocalypse, full of nutritional paste and canned food. I started making packing lists for my special needs bags a week ago.
But no matter how much I want to, I don’t fall down that black hole back into sadness.
I know this is the taper talking.
Still. There is one real problem. 112 miles on a souped-up kiddie bike? That’s not bricolage, that’s batshit.
I trust my uncles. They say there will be a bike, there will be a bike. It can’t be worse than my old one.
But I worry.
* * *
One week to go. I sit outside Tua’s, waiting for Dad to pick me up. When he arrives, my uncles are in the car with him, packed in tight.
“Why?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he says, and my heart jumps.
“But there’s no room,” I say.
“There’s room,” he says, and I roll my eyes and climb into the back, where I’m squashed between Mr. Bu and Mr. Kalani. “Worked better when you were littler.”
Squished between them and tired from my shift, I don’t notice where we’re headed until we pull up outside Kyle’s bike shop. As I’m getting out of the car, I see Rei’s Prius, X’s car, and Lani’s scooter. And the lights are on, even though it’s definitely after closing.
“Oh my god. Uncles,” I say.
“We told you there would be a bike,” Mr. Oshiro says. “A nice bike.”
I won’t get my hopes up. But Kyle said there might be a used bike.
Keep your hopes low, I command myself.
There’s a small army of bikes hanging out on the porch, and one woman sitting on the steps watching them. I recognize her.
“Miho?” she asks. “How’s the head?”
“It’s you!” I say. The paramedic, I realize.
“Anita,” she says. “Glad you’re okay. Go on in, you’re late.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
When I get inside, the bike store is packed with my friends, uncles, and women from the tri club. And in the middle of it all is a Corneille R-450 Pro in sky blue.
“We entered on your behalf,” Mr. Bu says. “Got it right under the deadline. And you won!”
“No way,” I say.
“Yes way,” says a woman who is walking around in her bike kit and bike shoes, waddling with her toes out so she doesn’t slip. “Hi. I’m Aaliyah. I’m the president of the Pipeline Tri Club.”
“I’m Miho. I’m…”
I’m completely tongue-tied.
“We heard you need it for a special race, and we managed to get the company to send the bike early.”
“But it was a tri bike. In the posters.”
“Seems like you met one of our members already,” Aaliyah says. “She made a good case for the road bike, and the company agreed.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god,” I say, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from clapping like a seal.
“One thing,” Aaliyah says. “Corneille wants to do a promotion on social media about the recipient of their charity bike. So, we’ll do a few pictures now, and their photographer will catch up with you and do a fun promotional shoot sometime in the next few weeks. And we need a few pictures from your race day.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. The bike is yours.”
“Oh my god,” I say again, my hands over my mouth so I stop sounding so stupid. I lift them to let out a “thank you.”
“Here, let’s do the picture before she drools on it,” Kyle says. “Everyone over there around the bike. Here’s your sign, Miho.”
“Sign?”
“Yeah, here. Just hold it and—Trinity, you stop making that face.”
“Sorry,” Trin says. As Kyle is wrangling the others into the frame, I look at the sign I’m holding. It reads third annual recipient of the corneille charity triathlon bike. It’s huge. That’s me, I think. Recipient. Charity. When I’m holding it, it’ll be like a label right over me.
And I just. I just.
“Wait,” I say. Everyone turns to look at me, and I feel very small. “Thank you so much for everything. But I can’t take charity.”
I hand the sign back.
“What?” Kyle asks.
“I’ll buy a bike,” I say. “The best bike I can afford. I’d rather pay my own way.”
“Miho, you apologize right now,” Dad says. “You are being ungrateful.”
“No, I am grateful,” I say. I turn to Aaliyah. “I am. I truly am. And when I have a bike that I’ve earned, I want to join your club. But I can’t do this as charity. I want to deserve the things I have.”
“Miho!” Dad says. He turns to Aaliyah. “I am so sorry. She doesn’t mean it.”
“Don’t apologize for her,” she says. “She’s a full-grown woman.”
“It’s a beautiful, beautiful bike,” I say, touching it longingly. “But people are going to think I got so many things I didn’t deserve. They’ll say, oh, she never would have gotten into that school if she had been a white kid. Or, she never would have gotten that job on her own—it was a diversity hire! No matter how great I am, I’m going to hear that for the rest of my life. I need my
finish line to be something I earned, like anyone else. And for me, that includes the bike.”
Aaliyah smiles.
“You know, Miho, I just met you, but I get it. I do. I’ve been there. It’s important to be proud of yourself, to feel like you’ve got dignity. And if taking charity makes you feel not proud, then you don’t have to take it. But let me tell you something. A rich girl? She wins a bike like this? She doesn’t worry about it being charity. She feels lucky. She feels like, hey, I won! Guilt is a poor girl’s game.”
“I’ll be a charity case,” shouts one of the women.
“Me too,” another says. “This bike is way nicer than mine.”
“Hell, I’d take this charity bike,” Aaliyah says. “Charity, it isn’t always a bad thing. When you get ‘charity’ to go to school, like I did, like most people here did, that’s the school paying for what they want. They want you.” She points at me. “Same with this bike. We are so committed to getting girls like you into this sport, we are willing to pay you a ten grand bike to make it happen, Miho. We want girls with your grit, and your experience, and your ability to do the work. Think about it this way: pro athletes, they get free stuff all the time. We’re sponsoring you.”
“But you wouldn’t be sponsoring me if I wasn’t poor,” I say. “That’s what makes it charity.”
X groans. “Miho, don’t you get it? They are sponsoring you. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t poor, or mixed, or someone who got a perfect SAT score, or an artist, or Californian, or Hawaiian, or my best friend, or a girl who spent six months having the weirdest post-breakup temper tantrum of all time.”
“Not a temper tantrum, you rotten louse!”
“What I mean is, you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t any part of you,” X says, putting a hand on the bike. “Just like any of us. Like I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t poor and gay.”
“And a genius,” I add.
Lani puts her hand on the bike. “And I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t fat.”
“And the best chef in all Hawai’i,” Trin says. “And I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t—”
Fierce as the Wind Page 19
