Chasing AllieCat (15 page)

Twenty-Three

Race Day

July 4, continued

My stomach was all fluttery from being so close to kissing Joe and from whatever scared Peapod. The real fear hit only when we started to get ready. Race day.

“Thanks for talking to me,” I said to Joe as we loaded up backpacks. We had too much stuff to carry it just in our jersey pockets.

“I had to. Thanks for listening.”

“So how you doing? About the race, I mean.”

“I think I’m going to throw up. That’s how,” Joe said. He ran his thumb along the inside of a brand-new inner tube that he was bringing for a second spare, before he folded it and put it in the backpack.

I felt selfish to be glad I wasn’t the only one on the verge of vomiting.

Besides extra inner tubes, we brought money, extra water bottles, Gatorade, granola bars, and GU—which is high-energy fuel that you can squeeze out of a packet into your mouth during a hard ride. We also crammed in flip-flops to wear after our races; mountain biking shoes with cleats underneath aren’t the best walking shoes, and we wanted to walk around to watch the other races.

We pulled into Mount Kato at 7:55. The Beginner class was first, at 9:00, for people like me; then Sport for “competitive experienced riders of average ability,” including Joe; then Comp for “competitors looking for state or regional recognition”; then Expert/Elite, and the riders who’d done so well in Comp or Sport that they had to move up. Nobody who had a racing license and experience racing could ride Beginner. I scanned the crowd for a head of spiky white hair, but I didn’t see Allie.

At the registration tent, we got our numbers, paid our fees, and got our free water bottles. We attached our race numbers to the front of our handlebars, and Joe asked me if I wanted to do a warm-up lap.

I looked at him like he was nuts. “I have to ride two laps as it is. Shouldn’t I save my energy for the race? I’m pretty warm from just riding over here.”

“I’d do a small hill or two if I were you,” he said. “Just to get the blood flowing good. Get the lactic acid out of your muscles if you can. You’re a good climber, and you could be kickin’ some butt on the hills. Think about how much better you ride hills when you’re warmed up. Just let your body ride. Don’t think too much. Ride like you always do. Pretend you’re chasing Allie. Remember, this is supposed to be fun.”

“Yeah, take your own advice.”

The race course at Mount Kato started on the flat grass at the bottom of the ski hill. The single track zigzagged up the hill, which seemed like a mountain from the bottom. At the top, it leveled off and wound around some ponds and up and down, then around in the woods on the top and back of the hill. There were three levels of trails, from “easy” to “technical,” and the race used the technical trail whenever possible. I was mostly scared about the descent. It was a long bumpy grind, with switchback curves that could send you flying into the woods. Thank goodness, the Beginner race used the “Mad Squirrel” downhill. The rest of the races used a hill called (for obvious reasons) “the Luge.”

I rode around some more, but I didn’t want to do a whole lap. At least pedaling kept my legs from shaking.

Finally, it was time for the Beginner class to line up. I looked around. A handful of people my age, three men, one middle-aged woman, and lots of eleven and twelve-year-olds. About forty people in all, I’d guess. We all looked shaky. I caught Joe’s eye on the sideline, and he shrugged and grinned. “Good luck, Sadie-Sadie,” he called. “You can take this. Just ride smart on the downhill. You’ll be strong on the climbs.”

I thought about wishing the girl next to me “good luck,” but I couldn’t quite look at her. I wanted to win, and I really didn’t want good luck for her. There wasn’t room for the best luck for both of us, so I didn’t say anything. I pretended to adjust my glove, feathered my brake levers, and the gun went off.

It was a madhouse. Bikes weaving side-to-side as the kids stood to get a sprint toward the big hill. I was instantly behind about a dozen teenagers and older kids and two of the men. The flat turned into single track, and I swerved off the trail onto the grass and rode around three of the kids right away. Then I was back on the track. I dodged onto the grass, around a couple more.

I looked up and counted nine bikes ahead of me, so I was tenth going up the hill. I stayed right there, pacing myself behind the boy wearing a Salsa jersey and a silver helmet. He was riding a Gary Fisher bike that looked like it cost a fortune. He stood into the climb. It was early for that unless he was a really strong standing climber. I stayed seated, spinning in an easy gear, feeling the burn already in my quads, but knowing it would get worse before it got better. The kid was falling back from the wheel in front of him, so on the next switchback, I curved outside him and passed, sliding back into the singletrack in front of him.

“Sonofabitch,” I heard him spit out, between heavy breaths.

My breath was heavy, too, but I concentrated on making it even, not ragged. In, out, in, out. Slow and deep instead of fast and hyper. Like the bass drumbeat for the faster pedal cadence.

I kept my rhythm, trying to ride my own pace, and I pedaled past a couple more riders. Now I’d moved into seventh position, but that didn’t mean anything yet. We were barely started. I hung where I was, trying to keep my rhythm, until we were two switchbacks from the top. Then I pulled onto the grass, shifted, and accelerated uphill, standing, pumping like Allie had shown me, past three more bikes including one of the men. He saw me and stood to match me, but his legs were shot and he couldn’t keep up. Two boys who looked about my age and one man were in front of me. All the eleven-year-olds were behind me now. I slid back into line to crest the top of the hill.

The guys ahead of me seemed fairly strong, so I was happy to follow them. If they started to break up and one of them went out ahead, I would try to pass and follow the leader. But for now, they stuck close together, swooping through the hairpins one after another, rattling over the corduroy roots, sifting through the soft dirt. I tried to let go of thinking, let my bike flow, pretend I was following Allie. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes I started to think, “I’m racing, I’m doing this, and I’m doing okay!” and then a gap seemed to open up between me and the bike ahead of me, so I shut off my brain and thought about the wheel ahead of me and the terrain. Nothing else. Legs pushing, loose arms, balance.
Breathe in rhythm. Flow
.

I got the familiar buzz in my arms. The rattling and vibration shook all my muscles and bones so much, my arms hummed with it. We charged toward the big downhill. My heart was in my throat. I’d ridden this over and over with Allie and with Joe, but this time, I was terrified. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was on my wheel. I couldn’t see anybody beyond the curve in the trees. The four of us seemed to have broken away off the front.

That quick turn of my head cost me a bread-loaf-sized rock. I saw it too late, and my front wheel made a direct hit.

I flew over my handlebars. Grass rushed toward me, and I slammed into the weeds, face and shoulder down, too late to tuck and roll. “Oof.” I couldn’t get my breath for a second, but when I did, I jumped up. My shoulder hurt but my arm moved just fine, so I was okay. I tried to catch my breath, spit dirt, and pull my bike back into position. The threesome were zipping away from me toward the bottom of the hill, and I’d just made a stupid, stupid move.

I jumped back on. I could hear more bikes in the woods behind me, so they were closing in. I wanted to go down the hill without an audience. Back on the bike, I clipped into my pedals and looked down. It looked too long, too steep, not possible. How had I ever done this? I felt that pull over the edge, like looking down from any great height gave me, and I felt Joe watching his brother fall and splat on the rocks below, and I froze. I fell on a stupid rock. How could I do this giant hill … ? I couldn’t.

But inertia and gravity moved me, even without pedaling, over the lip of the descent, and I was going down. Too late now.
Can’t think about Joe.
Watch the terrain. Miss that rut, follow that line
.
Don’t think. Ride.
I feathered my back brake, didn’t touch my front brakes. That would be sudden and certain death. Well, certain crash, probably not death.
Don’t think about death. Ride
.

A kid from behind came shooting past me on the downhill, another one on his wheel. Way too fast, reckless, fearless, thinking this was their chance to make a big move. The first one wasn’t using brakes at all. Stupid, unless he was truly an expert, which he couldn’t be. Then he hit a rut and a root in succession, and he was airborne, shooting sideways right into my line of descent. I turned my handlebars in the direction he was falling from, so I’d go behind his bike as he moved away from me.

The kid behind him hit him, and landed in the rocks. I hit the second kid’s back tire in the trail but I rode over it as if it were a rock or root; I was airborne for a moment and just kept going. I heard more riders coming around the bend and down, and the crashing and thrashing behind me told me there was a huge pile-up on top of that kid on the slope. I was lucky, in spite of my stupid fall.

I made it to the bottom. My hands were soaked with sweat. If I didn’t have gloves on, I wouldn’t have been able to hang on to my handlebars. I exhaled. I’d made it down. One down.

Breathe, breathe. Ride.
I swooped down the remaining grassy slope, hit the rise and caught air, landed safely on cocked legs, and blasted across the flat. The crowd was cheering. For me! Joe was next to the single track, screaming, “Sadie! You’re great! You’re in fourth! Just ride. You’re doing great!”

I kept breathing, trying to relax. I couldn’t relax. I hit the bottom of the switchback uphill and started it all over. This time, I was shaking from the downhill, the fall, and the near miss with the kid down, and I was on the tired side of the adrenaline rush. It had pumped through me and was gone. My legs felt like lead, and my lungs felt like deflated balloons.

The threesome was only about forty feet ahead of me on the switchback, but I was slow. My bike and I seemed to weigh five hundred pounds. I thought of Allie in front of me, of following her, and I pushed, trying to catch her instead of those three racers, but nothing felt better, nothing worked, and I was just slow. Nobody caught me on the uphill only because it had taken everybody else so long to untangle from the pile-up on the descent. I made it up the hill with lead in my legs, a long way back from the leaders.

“Sadie! Breathe! You’re doing great!” Joe screamed up the hill after me. I headed for the back stretch into the woods.

I kept spinning my legs at a high cadence to get my breath back and get rid of the lead, that lactic acid. Then, as fast as it came, the lead was gone. I’d recovered from the climb. I stood up and sprang over the hilltop. Round the first corner, then another, a swoop around, and bam, I was on the back of the threesome again.

We wove through the obstacles for the second time, in almost the same order. There was another sloping uphill after the pond, and this time, I felt strong, so I powered off the track and around the kid in back. He swore under his breath, but he couldn’t re-pass me. He was breathing like a freight train and riding out of his league already.

We came into a straightaway through thick trees, and there were a few spectators in the meadow, clapping, cheering.

“Sadie!” I heard. A familiar voice. Allie!
Allie!
“Sadie, you’re kicking some serious butt!” Allie screamed. “Just ride. Relax. Breathe!” Her white head was a blur beside me, but I could see her smile and her head-jewelry flashing in the sun. Her eyebrow ring caught a sparkle. “Go, girl! You’re awesome. Just ride. Loose arms on the bumps. Relax!” And I was past her. She yelled after me, “You’re doin’ it! You’re ridin’ through the chicken!”

I was smiling in spite of the burn in my legs and lungs.
Allie is here.
I can do this
.

Next corner, next rise, a small clearing, and I saw an open spot. I jumped forward into a tiny gap and swerved off the trail and passed one more bike. I was in second! The single track through the rest of the woods would keep us in this order until the descent.

We approached the big hill down, and I watched for rocks this time, my eyes on the terrain. Over the top, and my heart froze—sweat sprung to my ribs, my hands, but I tried to just let the bike flow. Fifty feet down, the kid I’d passed last came sailing by me and then slowed just enough to fall in line in front of me. The bumps and ruts rattled us, but we hung on to the smooth descent in the grass. I bent low over my handlebars, cranking with everything I had left in my legs, which was mostly jelly and all pain, but I stuck. We flew over the last jump like a school of salmon leaping upstream. I was coming into the finish line in third place. I cranked on my pedals with all I had left.

I hit the line, and the crowd was going nuts. Joe grabbed me before I even came to a stop, and we almost toppled over on my bike.

“You did it! You did it! You got third!”

The judge wrote down my number, and Joe and I moved off the course. The Sport class was getting ready, but it would be a good thirty or forty minutes before all the Beginners were done. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I held up my shaking hands and Joe laughed.

Only then did I see that my shoulder was bleeding, and my jersey was ripped. There was dirt in my helmet, and my whole right side was streaked with grass and dirt, and I was missing a little skin on my elbow and above my knee. But none of that mattered.