A mountain bike rolled over to me. I saw the shaved legs of a roadie and moved my eyes upward to see curly gray hair. Skarpohl. “Good for you,” he said. “I bet they won’t let you ride beginner again.” He grinned at me, a twinkle that lit up his whole weathered face. “You know, if you don’t fall down, you can’t say you’ve ridden a mountain bike.”
I laughed. “I like that philosophy. Are you racing today?” I nodded at his mountain bike.
“Yeah. Gotta be stupid a few times a year. Anyway, good race,” he said. “You need to buy a road bike.”
“Thanks,” I said, and he was gone.
Joe spun over. “Would you take a couple bottles to the top of the hill for me? Up at the feed zone? I might need one on each lap. Maybe some GU, too. I’ll carry a couple, but just in case?”
So I emptied out the backpack and reloaded it with our extra water bottles and GU, left the rest under my bike, and gave Joe a good-luck hug, thinking about how much physical contact we’d had today. I started up the hill. The “feed zone” was a designated open place on the flat ridge on top, out of the woods, where people could stand with extra bottles or even food in case one of the racers started to “bonk.” Bonking meant running out of energy—glycogen stores are gone, zip, zilch, and you can hardly see straight or turn your pedals when it happens. If you get some carbs into your system, you can actually keep riding.
The Beginner race had only taken me an hour and twenty minutes, not long enough to need extra water bottles, but I was sure some of the Beginning racers still out there were hoping for a new bottle by now. Joe’s Sport race went for three laps. The Expert women’s race was four laps, and Expert men’s was five. Halfway up, I turned and watched the Sport class starting to gather by the starting line. I waved at Joe. He waved back.
I headed for the part of the woods where I’d seen Allie. It was only about a hundred meters from the “feed zone,” so I had lots of time to try to find her before Joe came through.
Lots of people were climbing up the hill here, some with coolers, some with picnic baskets. There were still beginners riding the ridge. Lots of time difference between the winners and the kids at the back.
“You’re doing this!” I yelled at a girl of about ten. “Good job!” She gave me a big smile and stood on her pedals to go faster. I clapped.
I looked and looked for Allie. No sign of her. Finally, the starting gun went off for the Sport class. I gave up and headed for the feed zone to cheer for Joe.
I settled into a grassy spot to wait when I heard, “Sadie. Hey.”
I whirled around. “Allie!”
She grinned at me from the treeline, came over and squatted on the grass beside me. “Great job. You rocked.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said. “Where have you been!? Why’d you ditch us at the hospital?”
“Listen,” she said quietly. “I’m taking off right after my race. I can’t stick around a minute for awards or prizes, and I intend to win today. At least I hope I can.”
I nodded. “Yeah?”
“Will you get my prize money, if I win any, for me? Bring it to the back door of A-1 at four o’clock this afternoon. Okay?”
“The bike shop? There’s a back door?”
“Yeah. Go down the alley and come up the rickety-looking wooden steps beside the big A-1 painted on the wall. Then inside, there’s a hallway. It’s the door straight ahead.”
“They’re not open on the Fourth of July.”
“No, but I’ll be there. Bring your bike inside. Don’t leave it outside so anybody will see it—or rip it off. Four o’clock. On the dot. Can you do it?”
I thought about the picnic my family was planning for the time between the parade at noon and the concert in the evening. Thomas’s family was coming; our whole group hadn’t been together at Scout’s since Memorial Day. I hoped I could sneak away at four p.m. I’d have to. I had to do this for Allie. I nodded.
“Will they give it to me? Your prize money?” I asked.
“I’ll tell Mike. You know, Mike from A-1. He’ll give it to you. I’ll give you my race number at the finish line, too, to take with you. That is, if I win something. I have to leave the second I’m done racing. So meet me at the finish line to get my number, and come to A-1 at four o’clock. Okay?”
I nodded again. “Allie, what’s going on? Where have you been? Why do you have to split?”
“I’ll tell ya later, at the bike shop” she said. “Not now. Got it?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“I gotta go warm up. And you need to cheer for Joe. See you at four. On the dot. Promise?”
“Of course.”
“See ya,” she said.
“Allie. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Sadie, you were awesome today. I knew you’d do it. You killed that chicken.”
I grinned. “Thanks, AllieCat. You go kick butt now.” And I turned back to watch the race and wait for Joe.
In the third lap, Joe struggled, but he rode really well. He threw an empty bottle toward my feet—which landed within fifteen feet of me—and grabbed the fresh one I was holding out. “You’re doin’ it!” I said, just like Allie had said to me. “You’re ridin’ through the chicken.” He grinned in spite of himself.
He came in seventeenth. The Sport class was tough. Ryo, the roadie, got first, and Mike’s brother Matt got second. Since there were almost sixty riders in his race, Joe wasn’t disappointed with seventeenth. He was happy. “If I’d stopped smoking a month earlier, I probably would have placed in the money,” he said. “Next time.”
“I think you did great,” I said. “How’d you do at the top of the Luge?”
“I just kept riding,” he said. “I thought about you, actually, and I just kept going.” He smiled. We brought the last of our extra bottles uphill to cheer Allie from the woods. The sun blazed down. The dirt trail and the grass all radiated heat. It was good to be able to wait in the shade.
Allie looked like a pro. There were only twelve women and girls in her Expert race. Joe and I stood in the clearing at the top of the hill to watch the gun go off. Allie rode to the front on the first flat before the uphill. The cluster was together at the hill, but by the time they were halfway up, the twelve of them had spread out. Allie was a ferocious climber. I realized, watching her, how much I’d improved by climbing every hill in the county behind her for the past month. Only two women were sticking with her on the climb. She and those women rode away from the rest of the field like the others were standing still. When Allie got to the switchbacks at the top of the climb, we went to the feed zone to wait for her.
She was still in first when they came zipping toward us. The difference in speed between Joe’s class and this one was amazing. These women were flying.
“Want a bottle?” Joe yelled as Allie charged toward us.
“Next time,” she yelled back without missing a pedal stroke.
“You’re awesome!” we screamed at her receding backside.
The next lap, the same three women were together, but Allie looked strong and the other two looked tired. On the third lap, Allie had broken away from them and was leading the field by a good forty feet. We gave her a fresh water bottle filled with Gatorade, and she tossed an empty at us.
“Allie said she wants me to collect her prize money, if she wins any. Looks like she will.” I grinned at Joe.
“Why? Why can’t she do it?”
“She said she had to take off as soon as she’s done.”
“Weird,” Joe said, “but okay. At least she’s here.”
On the last lap, I headed downhill to meet Allie at the finish line. Joe stayed back to offer her another bottle, and the crowd behind me, at the top of the hill, chanted “AllieCat! AllieCat! AllieCat!” These people knew her from lots of other mountain bike races.
It gave me goose bumps, it was so cool.
I found a spot forty feet from the finish where I could see her come down the last descent, and then I could bolt to the finish line to meet her.
I saw the flash of her orange Kona bike through the trees and held my breath. She was as smooth as a wild animal coming through the woods. She’d cranked the speed, and nobody else was in sight.
Allie caught air, landed with her knees bent to absorb the shock, and rumbled down the patch of rocks and corduroy roots like a paint can in a shaker. She kept her knees cocked and her rear end low to hold her center of gravity over the back wheel, to keep it on the ground. Lots of air, lots of landings. There was one near miss when her back wheel slid sideways, but she steered into it, stayed on two wheels. She blasted into the last smooth downhill, hit the banked corner at well over twenty miles an hour, leaned into her turn, flew over the last jump, landed like a plane on a runway, then bent low over the handlebars and sped toward the finish line. No other riders were even out of the trees yet.
I ran toward the finish line at top speed. I’d been so mesmerized, watching her, I’d forgotten to be where she needed me to be. I was running, screaming, “You did it! You did it!”
She got her not-so-candid photo snapped by the newspaper, disentangled herself from the mob, and searched the crowd for me.
“Allie! Here! Allie!” I screamed. She heard me and relief flooded her face.
She pedaled over to me and ripped the number from the front of her bike. “I have to go now,” she hissed. “Pretend I’m still here if anybody, anybody except Mike asks, until they give out the money, got it? Then make sure Mike gives it to you.”
“Allie … you’re incredible.”
“Thanks, Sade. I felt good today. Please be there at four.” And she was gone. Again.
Twenty-Four
After Effects
July 4, continued
The other women rode in, exhausted and grimy with dust and sweat.
The one in second place crossed the finish line, put her feet down, and guzzled an entire bottle of Gatorade. The crowd roared for her, too, and when they quieted down, she looked around and said, “Where’s that Allie-girl? She’s not human.”
She saw me and spun over. “That AllieCat kicks ass. You know where she went? She should think about going pro.”
“She—she should be around here someplace.” The lie felt small, but it stuck in my throat anyway. I wondered if Allie could go pro. If she could get sponsors and get paid to ride her bike.
The Expert women all came in closer together than the Beginners did, so the race was over within fifteen minutes after the time Allie finished. One woman rode in with a ripped jersey and dried blood on her shoulder and her knee—way worse than my crash.
The Men’s Expert class was last. Joe went to the Luge descent to watch.
I stuck around at the bottom of the hill. The awards ceremony would start after most of the Expert men had finished.
I crammed Allie’s number, and mine, into my jersey pocket and stashed all the rest of my stuff in the backpack beside my bike. Then I wandered around, killing time until awards. Volunteers were passing out free pizza slices for racers. I grabbed two slices and a cup of Pepsi and sat down on a picnic table bench. I stretched out my filthy legs, covered with sweat and dust mixed into a gritty paste. But here, dirt was a badge of accomplishment.
The pizza tasted good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I could tell from the screams and cheers moving along the course that the Expert men were weaving along the top of the hill.
I soaked in the sun, feeling the warm pizza settle into my empty stomach, trying to absorb the fact that I’d actually gotten third in a race, glad to get to sit all by myself and bask.
A tall figure stepped into my sunlight, throwing the shadow of two long skinny legs over mine. I expected it to be another roadie, or somebody from my race—I didn’t know anybody else here. I shaded my eyes and squinted upward, taking in ratty jeans, hands on his hips, and a T-shirt that read, Polaris … at Breakneck Speed.
This was no cyclist. When my eyes reached his Polaris cap, I felt as if I’d turned to stone right there in the glorious, victorious sunlight. My mouth was open to take another bite of the pepperoni pizza, but I was petrified—mouth hanging open, pizza dangling in my hand.
It was the weathered, leathery-looking man who’d ridden the four-wheeler ATV with the rednecks in the woods. The one who stared me down, whose eyes were like steel, the one Peapod wanted to rip limb from limb. I wished like crazy Peapod were here right now, because the eyes in front of me were not friendly.
“Where’s Allison?” he said, his voice steady, like the controlled heat of molten steel in a foundry.
“Who?” I asked, squinting, my heart hammering while I tried to be cool and couldn’t. Allie had said, Pretend I’m still here if anybody, anybody except Mike asks. Had she known this creep would show up? Could Allie know this guy?
“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you two are thick as thieves.”
In spite of the hot sun, my skin shrank with goose bumps. I could hear my heart hammering like it had going warp speed down the Mad Squirrel descent, like I needed to disappear now, melt into the picnic table. I supposed this tall leathery man could hear it hammering, too. “Who,” I said, “are you?”
“Where is she?” The voice was carefully even, expecting to get what it demanded.
I lowered the pizza onto my paper plate. I wiped my mouth and hands on my napkin. “I don’t … know … exactly.”
“Don’t give me that. I know you know.” No change in his voice.
She told me to pretend. So I pretended. Pretended to be cool. “She’s gotta be around here somewhere.” I nearly choked on these words, couldn’t stand to meet this guy’s eyes. “She’s probably waiting for the awards ceremony.”
“I’d like to congratulate her. She raced so well.”
I looked up at him.
His lips turned up in a thin smile, about as warm as his voice.
“Maybe … I don’t know … maybe she’s watching the men’s downhill in the woods.”
He didn’t budge. He was waiting, like a steel trap, emotionless. I wished I were a better liar.
My heart and my palms felt like I was at the top of the downhill again. “Who are you?” I said again. “Why do you want Allie?”
The smile flattened into nothing, but his eyes didn’t change whether his mouth was smiling or not. He looked at me as if he were boring holes through my head with those steel eyes. Then he turned and stalked away with a slight limp—long legs, skinny, with lean muscle visible through the faded jeans. His arms under his T-shirt sleeves were ripped and lean, like Peapod’s rawhide bones, only leathery brown.
I picked up the pizza again, but I couldn’t chew or swallow. Suddenly I wanted to collect our prizes and leave. I got up to go see Mike at the race director’s tent. My legs were shaking, and the tent was empty.
“Whatcha need?” asked a familiar-looking guy in an unzipped jersey and bare feet, sitting on the grass in the shade of the tent, eating pizza.
“Just looking for Mike,” I said. “Mike from A-1.”
“He’s inside.” He nodded toward the bike shop. “They’re in there figuring up the results. Be done pretty soon. I’m Mo-Jo. I met you at the bike shop.”
I nodded. “I remember now. Thanks.” So I was stuck here waiting for the awards ceremony if I wanted to get our prizes. Besides, I thought, it wasn’t fair for that leathery man to wreck my fun. This was my first race, and I got third, so I should get to stand on the podium. I moved toward the center of the crowd, where he might not notice me, and where he wouldn’t dare come bother me. I found the most crowded picnic table and stood beside it, pretending to watch for racers coming out of the woods. Finally, my stomach settled enough so
I could swallow the rest of my pizza.
When the Men’s Expert race was almost over, I went to stand by the finish line and watch Skarpohl and Big Brian swoop across the line. They got fifth and sixth.
Finally, finally, the officials tested the P.A. There were still riders out on the course, but they had all the results from the Expert race already. The guys still riding hadn’t placed.
I couldn’t find Joe, and I had a sick fear that the leather man had found him in the woods. Why did I tell the guy that Allie might be out in the woods? What if he got Joe all alone out there? Would he have any way of knowing who Joe was? He knew me, but he’d seen me in the woods. I turned and pushed through the crowd, paying no attention to the announcer who had started handing out awards. I was frantic to see Joe’s face.
Somebody grabbed my jersey pocket from behind.
I whirled. “Joe! Ohmygosh,” I almost cried. I hugged him instead.
“Sadie! What’s wrong with you? Get going. They’re calling your name!” I forgot to listen, and Beginner class was being announced first.
“Sadie Lester?” The P.A. crackled. “Is Sadie still here?”
I turned and broke from the crowd, trotting in my flip-flops toward the podium. I got to step up on the third step. The announcer draped a bronze medal around my neck, and he handed me a box with a new speedometer/odometer computer as my prize. Mike stepped over to the podium, too. “Way to go, Sadie.” He shook my hand. “Good ride. AllieCat was right.”
The guys who won second and first joined me. We all shook hands, and the newspaper photographer clicked our pictures. I smiled. I didn’t have to pretend to be thrilled. First place won a brand-new Time pedal and cleat system, and second won a pro helmet. Winners in the Beginner class didn’t get money; it was incentive to move up to Sport if you were good enough. The reporter confirmed each of our names.
Then it hit me—the leathery man would know my name after he saw me in the newspaper, if he didn’t already. The newspaper. That was it. If he knew Allie, and had seen her name in the paper in the article about Father Malcolm, my picture and Joe’s were right there. No wonder he knew that I knew her.
Chasing AllieCat Page 13
