Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  As I looked up now, the sight of all those team vans and trailers at the far end of the parking lot filled me with rage. His team had turned on him. He’d been written up for the intent to distribute drugs. Lance Armstrong’s loss of all his Tour de France titles had done serious damage to pro cycling’s image, as had other doping scandals. Tyler Hamilton, Floyd Landis, George Hincapie—so many other famous cyclists had tested positive for doping, or confessed as well. A shadow had fallen over the sport.

  Now competitive cycling, from pros to juniors, was trying to get the public, and potential sponsors, to believe in it again. So Jake’s team coaches and managers had showed him no mercy. Zero tolerance. End of the ride.

  They kicked Jake off the team. First he lost his racing license, then his cycling scholarship at Colorado Mesa U. That was when he started jacking New England charity rides. His new plan was to go to his backup school, UMass Amherst, and apply for a racing license in a new age bracket as soon as next year. Meanwhile, riding in crowds, taking advantage of the marked routes and traffic control, would help him keep his skills sharp.

  He still loved his sport, but not all the machinery behind it. The managers, the coaches, the team owner—he felt like they’d betrayed him. I could understand. But these Chain Reaction riders today were out fighting cancer. While Jake and I weren’t hurting anyone, using their route suddenly seemed wrong.

  Light-headed, I jumped off my bike and walked it through the crowd, diagonally, like a swimmer escaping a riptide. I needed air. Fast.

  I stopped before a set of metal barricades. They separated the professional racers’ starting line from the rec riders’ staging area. In this zone, elite riders and junior cyclists were stretching out, swigging sports drinks, consulting with teams and coaches. Like Jake, they were lean, not an ounce of fat on them. And, like Jake, they moved cautiously, protecting their joints, like elderly people. But I’d seen enough races to know how those bodies concealed hidden powers. Legs that seemed sticklike and frail when walking could pound the pedals for miles. Streamlined bodies could lean close to the ground, taking tight curves, carving the air.

  A few of the cyclists were chatting with reporters. I scanned the TV cameras and vans. Fortunately, Greater Boston Cable News wasn’t yet among them. Not that it mattered now. Who would be interested in a kids’ TV host when they could talk to champion cyclists? I was safely invisible here.

  Jake’s former teammates, dressed in green to separate them as juniors, were huddled around head coach Tony Mancuso. They burst into laughter and high-fived each other.

  Near them, the professional riders of Team EcuaBar, looking fresh in their green-and-white cycling kits, were assembling for a team photo.

  A woman with tattooed vines writhing around her arms and legs, black-rimmed glasses, long black hair, and dyed blue bangs was arranging the pro cyclists into rows. She didn’t look like a cyclist type, despite the Chain Reaction tank top she wore with ripped cargos. But she seemed like an experienced photographer—and as the daughter of one, I had to admire how she quickly got the fifteen riders into neat rows.

  Fifteen. Not sixteen. Juan Carlos wasn’t in the shot. Maybe he was sick or sitting this one out. A mix of relief and disappointment ran through me. Jake wouldn’t cross paths with him. That was good. But it meant I wouldn’t see him, either.

  The photographer beckoned Coach Mancuso and two other men to come stand on either side of the team. One man I immediately recognized: Preston Lane, the Team EcuaBar owner, and one of my school’s most famous alumni. Instinctively, I stood up straighter.

  I’d met Preston before, for a KidVision interview last year, and I’d seen him only two weeks ago, at the Shady Pines graduation ceremony. There he’d delivered a rousing keynote speech. He’d brought the audience to tears with his talk about turning around the lives of struggling cacao farmers in Ecuador. He’d received a standing ovation, accepted the Shady Pines Corporate Responsibility Award.

  Preston was dressed in full cycling regalia, including a Team EcuaBar cycling jersey. As a former Olympic hopeful, he liked to pretend he was part of the team, Jake said. He also liked to pretend he was twenty years younger than he was, back-slapping and high-fiving, and constantly saying “awesome.” But now his lips were pressed together, his gaze faraway. He looked, suddenly, older.

  As the pro cyclists squished in closer together, I turned my attention from Preston to the other bookend in the photo: a balding, heavyset man. He wore khakis and a striped polo shirt that didn’t exactly flatter—or cover—his overhanging gut.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fitch?” the photographer said to him.

  “Please, call me Chris,” said the large man, a grin cutting into his doughy face.

  “Chris. Can I get you to face front? You’re kind of standing out.”

  He grumbled, but in a good-natured way, and rotated to face front. “Hey, where’s the banner? Who’s got the banner?” he called out.

  “Right here, Mr. Fitch.” A cyclist in the front row held up a rolled-up banner. His front-row teammates helped him unfurl it, and together they held it up. ANNOUNCING TEAM CADENCE-ECUABAR. PROUD PEDAL PARTNERS!

  The name change jolted me. The team must have gotten a new co-title sponsor and bike supplier: Cadence Bikes. I suddenly remembered that Airborne had pulled its sponsorship, and its bikes, back in April. Jake had been sure it was because of his situation. Any whiff of doping scandals sent sponsors running these days.

  Chris Fitch looked down at the banner and beamed. I figured he had something to do with Cadence Bikes, even if he didn’t look capable of riding one himself.

  “Everyone ready?” The photographer adjusted the camera on the tripod.

  “No.” One of the front-row cyclists held up a hand. “El Cóndor. He’s not here yet.”

  So Juan Carlos was here today. Somewhere. My heart beat a little faster.

  “Photoshop him in later,” said Chris Fitch, with a dismissive gesture. “We don’t have all day to wait for somebody running on Latin American time.”

  Several riders chuckled, and Coach Mancuso laughed loudly. “Yep. He’s probably busy styling his hair. For his fangirls.” He winked at Preston. “What do you say, Preston? How much would you bet on that?”

  Preston frowned. I did, too. That wasn’t a nice way to talk about the team’s star rider.

  “But this photo’s for the new website,” another cyclist protested. “El Cóndor needs to be in it.”

  “You’re right. He’s always front and center,” Coach Mancuso explained to Chris Fitch. “That’s what gets our website hits. He brings all the ladies. Nobody wants to look at our ugly mugs.”

  Another wave of laughter rolled through the group. Preston smirked but still looked distracted. He pulled a cell phone out of his jersey pocket and started scrolling through it.

  My stomach lurched. Maybe I was the one who’d driven up those website hits, circling back to the Team EcuaBar site as often as I had.

  “Maybe he’s with Dylan?” another cyclist suggested. “Someone should check the trailer.”

  The trailer. Where the team’s bikes and gear were stored. Dylan must be the new team mechanic. Jake had mentioned that the original mechanic, Gage Weston, had been replaced recently, but he didn’t know why.

  Preston put his phone back in his pocket, an annoyed expression on his face. “If he doesn’t show his face in five minutes, we’ll have to ride without him,” he said. “Who’s our backup leader?”

  On the junior team, that would have been Jake. But among the pros? I had no idea.

  “Matt can lead,” said Coach Mancuso, though his expression looked doubtful.

  Chris Fitch folded his arms across his chest. “This is ridiculous. The media and spectators are here to watch Juan Carlos ride. I saw him a half hour ago, suiting up. I’m sure he’s just lost track of time, or is chatting up some girl. I’m organizing a search pa
rty.” He called some of the junior riders over and talked to them. They grabbed their bikes and took off in different directions.

  Seeing everyone spring into action made me itch to do the same. I’d seen Juan Carlos before races all last summer and into the fall. I had a good idea of what he was doing. If I found him, I could get him to that photo. It would be an excuse to see him one last time, before his whirlwind of international races and product endorsements sucked him away. I’d never had a chance to wish him luck or even say good-bye. If I did it fast, Jake would never have to know that I’d slipped off to see el Cóndor in person.

  8:30. Jake would be back any moment. But a moment was all I needed. I pedaled away from the barricades, out of the parking lot, and crossed Great Marsh Road, toward the woods.

  3

  IT TOOK me a minute of riding back and forth to spot him at the edge of the conservation land, where he sought refuge from cameras and crowds. With his olive skin and his green-and-white jersey, the trees almost camouflaged him. But there, beneath a maple tree, stood Juan Carlos Macias-León, his eyes closed, his head bowed in prayer. A breeze danced the branches around him. With one hand, he held his white bike helmet by the straps. The other hand was raised to his chest, clutching the gold crucifix necklace that he wore all the time.

  I approached as quietly as I could, afraid to startle him in the middle of his prayers. But the sound of my brakes squeaking made him lift his head and turn. His dark brows knitted together as he looked around. Then he smiled. “Tessa?” His smile widened, displaying his even, white teeth. “¡Qué sorpresa!” His voice was as rich as I remembered, with so many notes contained in it, and a musical lilt. “You are doing this ride?”

  I brought my bike to a stop in front of him. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I’m not riding.” For a moment I forgot I was a bandit. For a moment I forgot I had come here with Jake. For a moment every rational thought flew right out of my head.

  I was three feet away from el Cóndor.

  I knew the details of his appearance, of course—those chocolate-brown eyes flecked with gold. Those high cheekbones. That long, arched nose. That thick black hair, slicked back with gel, immune to the dreaded helmet head. As the Great New Hope for road cycling, Juan Carlos had been profiled in every bicycling magazine lately. And ever since the new EcuaBar campaign had launched, all I had to do was drive down I-93 to get my sixty-five-miles-per-hour Juan Carlos fix. He was larger-than-life on a billboard, tearing into an energy bar.

  But here, up close, he was real. I could see a light sheen on his skin—the damp post-rain air settling on him. I was acutely aware of every water droplet that swirled in the mist around us. He was about three inches shorter than me, and a wild thought ran through my mind—would I wear flats if we were together?

  I’d forgotten how nervous I could feel around him. Looking down, I noticed an angry black mark on my right calf, almost like a bruise. The imprint of gear teeth, caused from leaning against the chain ring. A year into road biking and I was still getting these stupid grease tats, the mark of an amateur rider.

  “You are here for KidVision?” Juan Carlos guessed.

  “Yes,” I lied, grateful for his assumption. “I’m covering the event for the show. Hey, I think your team’s looking for you. They’re doing a photo shoot.”

  Juan Carlos slapped his forehead. “¡Ay! Miércoles. I forgot all about it!” He emerged from the stand of trees. He tucked his crucifix necklace inside his cycling jersey, then zipped up his collar. The top of the jersey partially covered the slightly raised pink scar that cut a jagged path up the right side of his neck. “How did you know where to find me?”

  I shrugged. “You said you always look for a quiet place and a tree where you can talk to God before races.”

  He looked impressed. “You remembered that?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you came by yourself? Why didn’t you tell my teammates to come find me here?”

  “I thought you wanted your privacy.” I didn’t add that Jake and the other junior riders used to joke, behind his back, about el Cóndor’s need for quiet and prayer while the rest of the team revved up. Nor did I mention they’d sometimes called him “the altar boy.” As someone who got called PBS Princess by Jake’s school friends, because of my goody-goody TV image, I’d always sympathized with Juan Carlos. We were both more than our nicknames.

  He smiled. “You are right. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” We stood awkwardly for a moment, until I realized I was blocking his way with my bike. I maneuvered the front wheel to let him pass by.

  But Juan Carlos didn’t move. He looked at me. Into me.

  I shivered, even though the heat and humidity were starting to burn through the haze.

  “I am happy to see you here,” he said. Then he added, almost under his breath, “You are the perfect person.”

  “What?!” Could he hear my heart hammer? “Perfect? Me?”

  “Perfect to talk to. You listen. You remember things.”

  “Oh. Right.” Of course. Perfect to talk to. Because I interviewed people on TV.

  Juan Carlos looked around, even though the only person within possible earshot was one of those EcuaBar volunteers, the redhead girl I’d seen earlier, walking with her basket across the road from us. She stared from afar like a starstruck fan.

  “Can we meet somewhere? And talk?” Juan Carlos asked in a low voice.

  I shrugged, as if meeting him was no big deal. “Sure. I’m around this week. I guess we could meet up somewhere?”

  “Actually, for me it would be better today. This afternoon. Right after the race. Okay?” There was an urgency in his voice that I’d never heard before.

  “This—this afternoon?”

  “The team flies to Bogotá on Friday for the tri-country Pan-American Cycling Tour,” he explained, talking quickly. “We will be three weeks in South America. We will not return to Boston until August.”

  “Can you meet sometime before Friday?”

  “I can’t. I will be busy with trip preparations and meetings.”

  “Sure. Okay. This afternoon.” I massaged one elbow, pinching my skin. Was I betraying Jake by making a plan to talk to Juan Carlos?

  “Do you have your phone with you?” Juan Carlos demanded.

  “Um. Sure.” I got my smart phone out of the saddle pouch strapped beneath my seat. As soon as I turned on the phone it began to vibrate. I saw Jake on the caller ID. I sucked in my breath and hit END before pulling up my contacts list and handing the phone to Juan Carlos.

  “Call me at two,” he said. “We can meet and talk right after the awards ceremony.” He typed on the touchscreen. “I cannot believe my luck, to find you like this today.” He looked up. “Do you have a laptop with you?”

  “A laptop? Why would I have a laptop here?”

  “For work.”

  “Oh, right.” I was “working.” For KidVision. “Yeah, I can probably find one.”

  “Perfect,” he said, and returned to his touchscreen typing.

  My heart galloped. Juan Carlos had said he was “happy” to find me. He wanted to talk as soon as possible. And I had hung up on my boyfriend, who was probably looking for me in the crowd right now. I was planning a crazy scheme. Where was I going to come up with a laptop computer, and why did he need one? Would I even be done with my ride by two? I’d be a sweaty mess. I’d have to make it look like I’d been interviewing riders all day for KidVision. I’d also have to find a way to separate myself from Jake long enough to talk to Juan Carlos. At least I had thirty miles to come up with a plan.

  Juan Carlos handed back my phone. Our fingers brushed. An electric tingle ran through me. The phone still felt warm from his hand. I slid it into the back pocket of my cycling jersey. I swear I could feel the phone burning through fabric, warming my skin.

  “I have to run,” said Juan Carlo
s. “You will call? Please? It is very important.”

  “Yes. I will call. Definitely. At two.” My phone buzzed again. I ignored it.

  Suddenly Juan Carlos reached up toward his neck and unhooked his necklace in one swift movement. “Will you do me one more favor?” He gestured for me to hold out my hand. I did, and he poured the thick chain into it, slowly, like water. The crucifix, about three inches tall, felt heavy in my palm. “Can you take care of this for me? While I am on the ride?”

  I stared at the gold cross, at the small figure of Jesus. It was a fairly simple cross, with bands of filigree running across all the ends. “You always wear this,” I protested, handing it back.

  “Not today. It is better that I do not.”

  “Oh. Is there some regulation about what kind of jewelry you can race in?”

  “Something like that. I can explain you later. Here. Let me to help you.” He plucked the necklace from my hand, his fingers stroking my skin and sending a spark through my whole body. “Turn, please?” He put the chain around my neck, lifted my braid in the back, and clasped the chain together. His breath was warm on my neck, and small shivers traveled down my back, all the way down my legs.

  Oh my God.

  “See you soon?” he said, a hopeful smile playing at his full lips when I turned to face him again.

  “See you soon,” I echoed, trying my best not to melt and become one with the asphalt. My eyes flicked down, taking in the top of the jagged pink scar at his neck, then up to his face again. “Good luck out there today!”

  “Gracias. Suerte, chica. Have fun with your interviews. Chao!” And he ran off to join his team.

  “Chao,” I whispered, tasting the word. It tasted sweet. I put my hand up to the necklace and squeezed the gold cross. It felt warm and solid against my skin. My family wasn’t religious. I’d never worn something like this. I imagined it protecting me. Not because it represented God or anything, but because it was from Juan Carlos. It had carried him through so many races. Maybe it would carry me through my ride today.