turn.
“This is Chris Collins from Hurricane, West Virginia. He rode his
bike
across the country this summer,” she gushed. I didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t hear her mention my family or retell one of the funny stories. I heard only one thing—Chris,
not
Chrisandwin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You want to stop?” Win asked me as we crested a hill somewhere in the third hour of our post-lunch ride. We’d covered almost thirty miles that morning before we broke to eat at a city park in Leon.
“No, I’m good,” I said.
We’d been having the exact same exchange for the last ten miles. I was pretty sure we both would have been happy to call it a day at the last campground we passed, but every time one of us asked the other, it was like some weird, dumb challenge not to be the one to go weak first.
“Yeah, I’m good too,” Win said. We rode quietly for a few minutes before Win spoke again.
“Dude, my butt hurts,” he complained, signaling an end to our standoff.
“Yeah, the padding isn’t quite getting it done,” I said, referring to the half inch of gel cushioning sewn into the lining of my bike shorts. I stood on my pedals to let some blood move back into that spot.
“I’m pretty sure,” Win huffed as he topped out just behind me, “that all this pressure and heat on my boys might make me sterile.”
“Bonus. No way should you be allowed to reproduce,” I shouted over my shoulder as we picked up speed on a downhill. In the distance I could see the Ohio River bridge and the state line, maybe a five-minute ride away.
“Car back,” Win yelled, and I sidled more toward the shoulder of the road in an automated response. The car roared past, kicking up too much exhaust, the radio blaring “Sweet Home Alabama” just a little too loud.
“I’ll be glad to get to a place where Lynyrd Skynyrd isn’t considered refined musical craftsmanship,” Win said.
“Almost there,” I said. “Ohio, dead ahead.”
“Right,” Win said. “Ohio’s just like West Virginia only without the hillbilly jokes.”
A hundred yards from the bridge I pulled to a stop next to a sign declaring LEAVING WEST VIRGINIA . Win pulled up beside me.
“Like it’s a warning or something,” he said, shaking his head.
I laughed. “Let’s take a picture.”
Win rolled his eyes. “Promise me that you won’t be taking pictures of every mile marker in Iowa.”
“This is a big deal,” I reasoned. “We’ve never ridden out of state before.”
Still, Win unclipped his other pedal and swung his leg over the bike.
“Gimme your camera,” I said. Win had a digital. I had a pair of disposable point-and-shoots to last me the whole trip.
He sighed but obeyed, rummaging for the camera in his handlebar bag. “You sound like those damn Hobbits,” he said. “‘Take one more step and it will be the farthest I’ve ever been from the Shire. …’”
“I’m not the one who memorized all three
Lord of the Rings
movies. That was you, remember?” I snatched the camera from his hand.
“Tricksey Hobbitses stole my precious!” he hissed, lunging for the Nikon with his free hand as I slid it from the neoprene case.
“Just go stand by the sign,” I ordered, dodging his reach. Win relented, leaned his bike against mine in a sort of tepee, and walked over to the sign.
My handlebar bag had a flat, clear lid for holding the map, and it made a perfect shelf for balancing the camera. I arranged the shot and hit the timer.
“Helmets on or off?” I asked as I trotted over.
“Uh, off,” Win muttered as he clawed at the catch. The timer was beeping steadily as I reached him and unclipped my own helmet, running my fingertips through my matted hair.
As the light flashed on the camera front and the beep sped up, Win and I stood next to each other, helmets tucked under our arms like a couple of astronauts in a NASA promotional photo. Neither of us smiled. The beeping climaxed with an understated click.
“Well, there’s the album
“This is Chris Collins from Hurricane, West Virginia. He rode his
bike
across the country this summer,” she gushed. I didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t hear her mention my family or retell one of the funny stories. I heard only one thing—Chris,
not
Chrisandwin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You want to stop?” Win asked me as we crested a hill somewhere in the third hour of our post-lunch ride. We’d covered almost thirty miles that morning before we broke to eat at a city park in Leon.
“No, I’m good,” I said.
We’d been having the exact same exchange for the last ten miles. I was pretty sure we both would have been happy to call it a day at the last campground we passed, but every time one of us asked the other, it was like some weird, dumb challenge not to be the one to go weak first.
“Yeah, I’m good too,” Win said. We rode quietly for a few minutes before Win spoke again.
“Dude, my butt hurts,” he complained, signaling an end to our standoff.
“Yeah, the padding isn’t quite getting it done,” I said, referring to the half inch of gel cushioning sewn into the lining of my bike shorts. I stood on my pedals to let some blood move back into that spot.
“I’m pretty sure,” Win huffed as he topped out just behind me, “that all this pressure and heat on my boys might make me sterile.”
“Bonus. No way should you be allowed to reproduce,” I shouted over my shoulder as we picked up speed on a downhill. In the distance I could see the Ohio River bridge and the state line, maybe a five-minute ride away.
“Car back,” Win yelled, and I sidled more toward the shoulder of the road in an automated response. The car roared past, kicking up too much exhaust, the radio blaring “Sweet Home Alabama” just a little too loud.
“I’ll be glad to get to a place where Lynyrd Skynyrd isn’t considered refined musical craftsmanship,” Win said.
“Almost there,” I said. “Ohio, dead ahead.”
“Right,” Win said. “Ohio’s just like West Virginia only without the hillbilly jokes.”
A hundred yards from the bridge I pulled to a stop next to a sign declaring LEAVING WEST VIRGINIA . Win pulled up beside me.
“Like it’s a warning or something,” he said, shaking his head.
I laughed. “Let’s take a picture.”
Win rolled his eyes. “Promise me that you won’t be taking pictures of every mile marker in Iowa.”
“This is a big deal,” I reasoned. “We’ve never ridden out of state before.”
Still, Win unclipped his other pedal and swung his leg over the bike.
“Gimme your camera,” I said. Win had a digital. I had a pair of disposable point-and-shoots to last me the whole trip.
He sighed but obeyed, rummaging for the camera in his handlebar bag. “You sound like those damn Hobbits,” he said. “‘Take one more step and it will be the farthest I’ve ever been from the Shire. …’”
“I’m not the one who memorized all three
Lord of the Rings
movies. That was you, remember?” I snatched the camera from his hand.
“Tricksey Hobbitses stole my precious!” he hissed, lunging for the Nikon with his free hand as I slid it from the neoprene case.
“Just go stand by the sign,” I ordered, dodging his reach. Win relented, leaned his bike against mine in a sort of tepee, and walked over to the sign.
My handlebar bag had a flat, clear lid for holding the map, and it made a perfect shelf for balancing the camera. I arranged the shot and hit the timer.
“Helmets on or off?” I asked as I trotted over.
“Uh, off,” Win muttered as he clawed at the catch. The timer was beeping steadily as I reached him and unclipped my own helmet, running my fingertips through my matted hair.
As the light flashed on the camera front and the beep sped up, Win and I stood next to each other, helmets tucked under our arms like a couple of astronauts in a NASA promotional photo. Neither of us smiled. The beeping climaxed with an understated click.
“Well, there’s the album
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