Page 112 of Tutored in Love
Not that I’m looking.
He glances up at the bottom of the slope, catching my eye right as his front wheel bogs down in the soft sand and derails him. He hops over his handlebars and stumbles into the sand, leaving his bike behind.
“Well, that was... smooth,” he says, winded and glaring at the sand. When he faces me, I can’t help laughing at his expression: surprised, mostly, with some embarrassment and a dash of frustration.
I clear my laughter. “I mean, the dismount was excellent.”
He grins and does a mocking bow. “I did land on my feet.”
“True.” I smile back.
He notices my bike and tools. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Pinch flat, thanks to that boulder before the sand.”
He nods back at the trail. “Did you get it fixed? Or do you—”
“It’s all fixed, but please tell me you have a full cartridge. Or a pump.”
He pulls his bike off the trail and rummages in the tool kit under his seat. “What happened to everyone else?” he says, pulling out the silver tube—like a tiny helium tank—that will save my ride.
“Ahead,” I say, tamping down my frustration. It isn’t Alec’s fault that I was unprepared. “Jake and Melissa offered help, but I thought I had everything I needed.”
He waits for me to say something about Alec, his eyes narrowing when I don’t. Realizing he still has the cartridge, he holds it out. “Do you want me to... ?” he says with a jerk of his chin at my tire.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say.
He sits down on a rock to take a drink.
“What held you back?” I ask as I fill the tire, making sure the bead seats on the rim.
He looks down at his water bottle and chuckles. “Let’s just say I went a little overboard with my hydration this morning.”
“Well, that’s... a relief.”
“No pun intended?”
“Never,” I say, tossing his now-empty cartridge back. “Thanks for the air.”
“Happy to help.” He stands and packs his water bottle and the empty cartridge, refusing to go first when we resume our ride.
It takes a while to work past the discomfort of having Noah riding behind me, but he leaves a comfortable gap, and now the trail is speaking to me.
I drive my handlebars into a dip, then pull them up again as the back end follows, my bike’s suspension smoothing out the bumps in synchrony with my joints. Relishing the flow, I lean into the stony hillside to guide my tires around a determined sage growing from a pocket of sand in the slickrock before attacking the next hill.
It’s a steep one, the path marked by a darker-than-elsewhere tire line chronicling previous attempts of thousands of riders to ascend the insane slope. I thread my pedals through a narrow slot, the rocks on either side scratched white by the mistakes of my predecessors. With a mental pat on the back, I set my pedals to work, but I’m in too high a gear.
Uh-oh.
Already engaged on the slope, I back off the pressure enough to shift into granny gear, but the slope is so steep that I can’t maintain momentum. Noah has almost caught me from behind, and if I don’t get moving, I’ll ruin his approach. I push harder, understanding what I’m asking of my bike, hoping chain and derailleur will hold. With grinding complaint, they shift. I double the pressure on my feet to regain some momentum.
Too soon.
With a terminal crunch, all resistance gives way, and my pedals spin out from under my feet, gouging into one shin and upsetting the delicate balance I have on the slope. Instinctively, I jerk my handlebars into the fall, trying to steer out of it, but it’s too steep. I stretch out a foot, knowing I’m going down, but can’t reach the ground because of the decline.
Sandstone rushes to meet me. Unforgiving and gritty. Great for tires, not skin.
And that determined sage I noticed earlier? I am about to revisit it, up close and personal.