Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  I didn’t need any more urging. I lifted my bike and ran. As soon as I got back to the walking trail, I jumped on my bike and rode. My teeth chattered as I pounded the pedals, over rocks and sticks, in the direction that Jake had gone.

  6

  THE WOODS thinned out, revealing an eerily quiet Great Marsh Road, closed to traffic for the ride. No spectators, no ride officials, no cameras. No witnesses, if that mango-loving madman decided to burst out of the woods and kill me.

  I checked my watch. 8:56. Jake and I had been apart for only eleven minutes. It seemed like so much longer. Where was he anyway?

  I rode a few yards down the road, following it around a bend. There Jake stood, straddling his bike, adjusting a biking glove. I wanted to throw my arms around him. Any doubts I’d had about Jake minutes ago suddenly didn’t matter. I’d made it out of the woods.

  “Well, howdy, stranger. Long time no see,” he said in a flat voice as I pulled up beside him.

  Legs wobbling, I dismounted. “Jake. Something happened back in the woods. I found—”

  “My glove?” He held up a bare hand. “Forgot to zip my saddle pouch. Must’ve fallen out.”

  First the forgotten sports drinks and now this? He was off his game today. But that wasn’t important right now. “No, I found something else. Jake, I’m really scared.”

  He finally turned to look at me. His face softened into concern. “You do look pretty rattled. Okay, take a deep breath. Calm down. What happened?”

  I spilled the facts: the bike in the bushes, the angry man, the threats he’d hurled at me. I left out the detail about the bike belonging to Juan Carlos. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say Juan Carlos’s name to Jake. “Did you see the bike? Or the guy?” I finished.

  “Nope. Nothing. No one.”

  “So what does this sound like to you? Did I see a bike theft in progress?”

  “I bet you did,” Jake agreed. “A thief probably left a bike at a drop point, and you ran into the fence.”

  “I ran into the what?”

  “The fence. Oh, I forgot. While you’re making quality television programming for kids, the rest of us are rotting our brains on cop shows. A fence picks up and sells stolen goods.”

  “A middleman. Okay. That makes sense,” I said. “From the phone conversation I overheard, it sounded like he was trying to pick up something that had been left for him in the woods, like at a drop point. He mentioned a spray-painted rock, and how the bike hadn’t been there. But aren’t fences used for big-ticket items, like cars? This is just a bike.”

  “Not just a bike,” said Jake. “A high-end bike. And bikes get stolen at charity events.”

  “Why?”

  “Rich bastards with their fancy steeds get all caught up in the moment. They wander off and forget to lock them. That frame will show up on eBay or Craigslist. I guarantee.”

  But this was el Cóndor’s team bike. “What if the bike belonged to a team?” I ventured. “A person couldn’t just sell that on eBay. It would obviously be stolen.”

  “Team names can be painted over. Decals can be scraped off,” said Jake. “Why? You think this was a team bike?”

  I hesitated. Mentioning Cadence meant steering us into Juan Carlos territory again. “I don’t know.”

  “Actually, you could sell a stolen team bike,” Jake went on. “Some people pay thousands of dollars for sports equipment used by pro athletes. Like a baseball bat used by David Ortiz, or anything touched by an NFL player. There’s a legitimate market for stuff like that, but also an underground one.”

  “Underground? Like a black market?”

  “Yeah. There’s serious money to be made by people willing to loot sports items and move them to private buyers.”

  So the guy in the woods could have hired a thief to do the dirty work of stealing Juan Carlos’s bike. The thief could get it out of the staging area and to a drop point in the woods. Then the fence—the guy I’d run into?—could pick it up, transport it away after the race started, and sell it.

  “I think we should call the police,” I said. “But what if this guy, this fence, finds out I reported him? After he warned me not to? Because of KidVision, I’m not exactly anonymous.” I pressed my lips together, thinking. “Hey, what if you called and said you saw a bike hidden in the bushes?”

  “No way,” said Jake. “I am so done talking to cops.”

  “I’m going to go back to the staging area and find a police officer there.”

  “I would remind you that we cut through the woods on a charity ride. We’re going to look bad just being here. They might think we had something to do with it.”

  “But we didn’t! And it’s our duty as citizens to share information about possible crimes.”

  “And it’s our right not to incriminate ourselves. If we talk to a cop, he’ll take down our names. Then we’re on the record as kids looking for trouble. The police are not our friends. Anything we say can be used against us. Didn’t your lawyer dad teach you that?”

  I glared at Jake. “He taught me that it’s a crime not to report a crime.”

  “You don’t have any proof. Look”—Jake scratched his neck—“I went through hell with this doping allegation stuff. Nothing good comes from talking to cops. The more you say, the bigger the hole you dig for yourself. Anyway, the race is about to start. And guess what? Bikes get stolen. It’s not our problem. We don’t even know the people involved.”

  “But we do,” I blurted out. “I mean, we might.”

  Jake gave me a long look. The kind of look he gave me when he knew I was holding back.

  I plunged ahead. A theft was in process, and we did know the victim. This was bigger than us. “It’s a Cadence bike. The decal said ‘J. Macias.’ The bike belongs to el Cóndor.”

  Jake kicked the ground and swore under his breath. He looked past me down the road, cutting me out with his gaze.

  “Talk to me,” I pleaded. “This has nothing to do with us. It’s about doing the right thing. Don’t you think we should help him get his bike back?”

  BANG.

  I jumped and glanced back at the woods behind me.

  “Starting gun. The race is on.” Jake clipped one foot into a pedal.

  I clipped a foot into a pedal, too, even though riding this event was now the last thing I wanted to do. But no way was I going to turn around and go back through those woods.

  Two police motorcycles zoomed past, too fast to flag down. They were almost immediately followed by a SAG wagon—a flatbed truck with a support crew and equipment—and a media truck. The cameras were trained on the peloton of professional cyclists, now fast approaching. The bicycle wheels thrummed like cicadas. Heads bowed, backs hunched, legs pumping, the riders whizzed by. There went Firestone-Panera. Velo-Olympus. And Team EcuaBar, in third place, shot past like a green-and-white comet.

  I didn’t see Juan Carlos. And I’d always been able to spot him in the peloton, even when they went upwards of thirty miles per hour. I’d been to a lot of races by now. Juan Carlos always stood out, and not just because he had the darkest skin on the team. How many times had I let my gaze drift from Jake to Juan Carlos at races—even as I cheered myself hoarse for Jake?

  Jake rode like a machine designed for maximum efficiency. He pounded hills, pulled back on descents, leaned into curves with precision. His gaze was intense, his smile a grimace. Juan Carlos was different. He always seemed calm, even joyful, when riding. Grinning like a kid. Light on the wheels. Jake knew how to handle his bike, but Juan Carlos rode the air.

  The women’s pro teams zipped by. The fastest group of rec riders would be coming next. Because I was new to this, Jake had planned for us to merge with the medium-speed group. Even so, we were looking at a two-lane road with a narrow shoulder, not much space to maneuver, and almost no time to get up to speed.

  The fast recs sho
t by in a red-and-white blaze.

  Still no sign of Juan Carlos. Clearly I’d missed him going by.

  Jake nudged his bike onto the road.

  “Wait!” I said. “Wrong group! They’re way too fast for me.”

  “Good luck, chica,” Jake sneered as he shoved off and joined the riders.

  7

  “JAKE! WAIT!” I shouted. I jammed my foot into a pedal clip and bore down hard, slanting toward the advancing peloton of highly skilled recreational riders. The road, still wet, was slick and slippery. My front wheel skidded out. Water sprayed my back as I rode through a puddle.

  “Hey! Learn how to ride!” a woman yelled at me. A sign taped to the back of her jersey fluttered. “Squirrel,” she spat at me as she passed. Then she gave me the finger.

  Squirrel. That hurt. That’s what cyclists call panicky riders who can’t hold their line. I pedaled hard, still veering right, trying to hold my line as I approached the peloton and then rode alongside it. I scanned for a break where I could dip in. I found that break and merged.

  I couldn’t see Jake. I couldn’t believe he’d ditched me because of Juan Carlos.

  Or was Juan Carlos really the reason?

  I held my breath. Maybe he’d planned to merge early all along, and then catch up with the professional race. Maybe Jake wanted to get attention from the Firestone-Panera managers or someone else. To be a wonder kid again. Or maybe doing the recreational ride as if it were a race—his own race—was all a weird way of protesting against Preston Lane, Coach Mancuso, everyone. Thanks for nothing, assholes. Look what Team Cadence-EcuaBar missed.

  Whatever his reason for jumping the gun, it was clear that he wasn’t doubling back. He’d dropped me. I was on my own.

  I stood on my pedals, pumping hard, fueled by pure rage. My braid slapped against my shoulder. When my thigh muscles strained, I pulled up on the handlebars as Jake had taught me, and felt a little relief. Minutes later, I took a hill full throttle and even passed a rider.

  Jake had always cautioned me about pacing myself so I didn’t bonk. But now I didn’t care. Grinning, I pumped the pedals in my easiest gears. I felt like a nine-year-old kid again, on my old hybrid bike that I’d nicknamed Columbus. For an instant, I was back on the Minuteman bike path, free and easy, imagining that my bike was enchanted and might take me to places unknown. Riding for pure fun.

  On a long descent I kept pedaling, gaining even more speed. The energy of the other riders carried me along. I smiled at the funny helmet decorations some teams had chosen—wings, antennas, children’s toys. A fleet of penguins atop helmets zoomed past on my right, a team of stuffed green Kermit the Frog helmets on my left. I could totally get through thirty miles with all this entertainment.

  After that descent, the road shoulder widened and crowds appeared. “Go, Chain Reaction riders!” they shouted, jangling cowbells and waving homemade signs. Kids held out their hands for the riders to slap as we passed.

  All that energy went into my body. Pure energy. Like EcuaBar.

  But I wasn’t remembering that slogan—I was seeing it. On the back of a green-and-white cycling jersey a few yards ahead. I passed another rider and got a bit closer to make sure.

  It was Juan Carlos!

  He rode a black, green, and white Cadence bike, identical to the one I’d seen in the woods, only this one had green handlebar tape. His main ride.

  What was he doing so far back? In a road race, a team’s domestiques, or “servant” riders, were supposed to protect the lead cyclist, to help him save energy for strategic moves like breakaways, hill climbs, and attacks. Team cycling was all about strategy. And no one could ride all-out for one hundred miles.

  So had Juan Carlos not started the race with his team? Or had his team dropped him?

  Juan Carlos was getting farther away from me, passing riders, making up for lost time. My legs burned. I sucked wind. I couldn’t maintain this pace.

  I scooted left and got behind a paceline. Six women were riding in a straight line, close to one another’s back wheels. They all wore paper signs pinned to the backs of their jerseys. The signs said TEAM MAUREEN and showed a photo of a smiling woman. I recognized one of the women in the paceline as the woman who’d called me a squirrel.

  There was only one way I could attempt to chase Juan Carlos. Drafting.

  Jake had told me about how drafting works on our very first “date” last year. “The leader in a paceline generates most of the energy and blocks the wind for everyone else,” he’d explained, standing close behind me as we watched a video of one of his races at the Boston Bicycle Expo. “The rest of the riders in the line get pulled in the slipstream, increasing their speed a few miles an hour without having to spend more energy. Then they take turns pulling up front and leading. The whole team can gain five or ten miles an hour that way.”

  Now I came within inches of the bike wheel in front of me, just as I’d watched Jake and his team do in that video and, later, in countless live races. I checked the gear that the rider in front of me was in, and I shifted into the same gear. That was it. I was drafting!

  It felt as close as I’d ever come to flying. I instantly felt the pull, the boost.

  I tried to keep Juan Carlos in sight. Then I glanced down at my wheel. Oh, no. I was overlapping the wheel in front of me. And we were starting another descent. I feathered the brakes instead of squeezing them hard, to try to stay in control. Then I downshifted, matching the gears of the paceline again. Success. I grinned. I was keeping up! The paceline hadn’t accelerated and dropped me. Maybe they didn’t know I was there.

  But my conscience nagged. Drafting strategically in a race was legit. Drafting a paceline, without ever taking a turn at the lead? That made you a “wheelsucker.” A “leech.”

  A yellow diamond sign with the words SLOW DEAF CHILD distracted me for a moment. I felt sorry for whoever that was, his or her disabilities announced to the world.

  I caught sight of Juan Carlos off to my right, toward the road shoulder. Oh my God. I was passing him now, with the help of my poached paceline. Either I was riding faster than I’d ever ridden, or Juan Carlos was in some kind of trouble.

  He was grimacing, looking down at something. Was something wonky with his bike? God, I hoped not. Unless he’d gotten my half-finished text and sent someone to retrieve that spare bike in the woods, he was screwed if his main bike had a mechanical problem.

  Was he going to pull over? Had he lost contact with his team? The pros all wore earpieces and two-way radios to communicate with their coaches, but sometimes things went wrong. Could I give him my phone? Could I help?

  I swerved back. He thought I was here with KidVision, not riding. What could I do?

  Stay on the wheel, Tessa.

  I looked straight ahead, blinked, and focused on that photo on the jersey in front of me. The woman pictured smiled warmly, one arm slung around a golden retriever. Beneath her marched somber black numbers. 1974–2014.

  The woman was Maureen. The woman was dead. This team rode to honor her memory.

  My mind flashed to Kylie’s mom. Beth Sullivan had been diagnosed with breast cancer last fall. I hadn’t been such a good friend to Kylie all the months her mom was in chemo. A couple of weeks ago, I’d seen her mom at an end-of-year academic awards assembly. I’d been so startled, I could hardly look at her, even as I gave her a hug and asked how she was feeling. She had lost her hair and her eyebrows. She had dark circles under her eyes. I’d said some cheerfully optimistic things, then escaped as fast as I could. I didn’t know how Kylie did it—kept up her spirits, her grades, her activities, with the fear of losing her mom always hanging over her.

  Seeing that image in front of me—which might as well have been Beth Sullivan—I could not be on this ride anymore. Game over. I was out.

  The hill got steeper and started to curve. What had Jake done on curves? He’d bro
ught up one knee higher so the bike would lean and turn, and not shoot forward. Right knee or left? When? No. I had to get out before the turn got too sharp. I had to get out now.

  Without sparing even one second to glance behind me, I jerked my front wheel toward the right road shoulder. I dropped out of the slipstream. And slipped.

  8

  KALEIDOSCOPE. SHARP images. Spokes and derailleurs. Tires and chains. Everything spinning, spinning, spinning. A high-pitched whining sound.

  Then I was on asphalt, spitting dirt.

  That whine, and scraping sounds, went on and on. It took me another moment to realize it was the sound of bikes falling. People behind me continued to crash.

  I eased myself up on one elbow. My cleats had come out of the pedal clips. My bike was several feet away.

  “Riders down! Riders down!” people shouted. More approaching cyclists swerved, way out to the opposite road shoulder. Some got off their bikes to help people; others kept going. I hoped Juan Carlos was one who kept going. I hoped he wouldn’t see me like this.

  Juan Carlos. The necklace. I reached up and felt the cross outline beneath my jersey, and the gold chain firmly clasped. Still there.

  I checked in with my arms and legs, my fingers and toes, and, lastly, my head. Everything moved. I crawled over to my bike, then dragged it to the road shoulder. My beautiful Bianchi. The pretty mint-green frame was scratched up. Two spokes were bent in the front wheel. How could I have been so stupid not to look behind me when I pulled out?

  I turned and took in the full horror of the scene. Another paceline had stopped short to avoid me. Some cyclists ahead of me had crashed, too, maybe startled by the noise. I counted ten riders down behind me, eight up ahead—including some from Team Maureen. Riders were groaning, holding knees and elbows, surveying damage to bike frames.

  I knew I should help people. Instead, I froze. What if someone recognized me as the girl who had caused this pileup? Sure, the road was wet. But that was all the more reason for me to have been more careful riding outside of my skill area.