Olympic Dream (8 page)

“Sounds like it’s way out of my league,” said Doug.

“Nope,” said Red.

“What? Did I hear you right? Are you saying I could take part in a real race?” Doug asked.

“It’s not a race,” said Red. “It’s a
challenge.
You’re setting a goal for yourself and trying to reach it—along with a pack of other riders.”

“Hmmmmmm,” said Doug. “Well, I’ll help you put up the posters, but I don’t know about doing anything else.”

“Fine,” said Red. “But in case you do get interested, here’s a little brochure that tells you the rules. It has an application
inside, too. By the way, how many miles are you doing a day now?”

“Let me see,” said Doug. “On days I work, back and forth to the project is about six. And I do five miles on my own later.
Eleven. I ride about a little more or less on other days.”

“The basic ride in the Tour is only twelve miles. And the event is still two weeks off,” said Red. A shout came from behind
them. “Hey, we’d better give those guys a hand filling in that hole over there.”

He leapt to his feet and headed off toward the work crew.

Doug stared at the cover of the brochure, then tucked it in his pocket. He followed Red slowly, his mind filled with a whole
range of new thoughts: Was this something he could do? And was it something he wanted to do?

He decided he’d have to give it a lot more thought.

That day, on the way back home, he had a hard time
staying behind Red. He found himself pushing just a little harder.

When he arrived home, he parked his bike and went in the back door. On the kitchen table was a note from his mother. She and
Kate were down at the mall doing something about bridesmaid’s dresses. Dinner might be a little late. There was a batch of
newly baked brownies on the counter.

Doug looked at the brownies, but what he really wanted was a tall drink of water. He chugged it down and left the kitchen
to go change his clothes. The brownies could wait.

Up in his room, he took out the brochure and read it carefully.

• To benefit a group of local charities.
  
• A pleasant, scenic 12-mile loop.
  
• Rest stops are provided along each course.
  
• Will he held rain or shine.
  
• Each entrant will receive a specially designed Tour de Lakeridge T-shirt.
  
• The top three finishers in each level will receive a Tour de Lakeridge commemorative water bottle. The
  first-place winner will also receive a silver trophy bowl.
  
• There will be a post-tour picnic in the park opposite the clubhouse.
  
• The registration fee is one dollar for each mile of your event
  —
  or five times that number in collected pledges. Donations can be made in your own name or as a tribute to someone of your
  choice.
  

Phew! That told him a lot. And through it all, one thought wouldn’t go away: How could he face Red if he didn’t take part?
Wasn’t this the sort of thing even beginner cyclists had to do? What’s that thing his mom called it whenever he did something
big—a rite of passage?

It looked like this passage was going to be a twelve-mile ride. For an instant, an image from a faraway dream passed through
his head. “Can-non! Cannon!” screamed a crowd of fans. Doug looked down at the pamphlet in his hands.

It may be a far cry from the Olympics, he thought. But it’s a step.

He wondered whether Billy Torrant would enter the race. It would be kind of fun to have a buddy out there. Then he thought
of someone else he’d like to have out there. Someone who loved cycling. An idea took root in his head.

That evening, he took his father aside.

“Dad, are you going to be in your office tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Mr.Cannon. “Why?”

“Mind if I stop by?”

“Of course you can,” said Mr. Cannon. “Anytime you like.”

The next day was an off day for the Rails to Trails project. Doug did his practice run, then got cleaned up and went down
to Mr. Cannon’s office. He was armed with a pledge book he had picked up from Red earlier.

“Dad,” he said. “Will you sign up to sponsor me for the Tour de Lakeridge? See, it’s a charity event. You pledge to pay so
much if I complete the distance I sign up for.”

“Doug, nothing would make me happier than to be a sponsor. Where do I sign?” asked his father.

He took the pen, started to sign, then stopped.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a notation Doug had added to the pledge form.

“The money collected is being donated to cancer research. Riders can leave that space blank and donate their collections anonymously.
Or they can write in someone’s name and give the money on behalf of that person. I decided to fill it in. But don’t tell,
okay? I want it to be a surprise.”

Mr. Cannon grinned, signed, and handed the book back to Doug.

“Is it okay if I ask a few of the others?”

“Go right ahead,” said Mr. Cannon. “They hit me up often enough, and this is definitely a worthwhile cause.”

Doug circled the office and collected quite a few sponsors with generous pledges. He thanked everyone and was heading out
the door when he heard his father’s longtime assistant, Mr. Atwood, say quietly, “I can hardly believe that’s Doug Cannon.
He’s really trimmed down and looks so healthy!”

Doug couldn’t see it, but someone else had overheard the same remark. Inside his office, Mr. Cannon’s chest swelled with pride.

Collecting pledges turned out to be the easy part. Getting himself prepped was a lot harder.

It wasn’t simply practicing the twelve-mile run. He knew he could do that. It was everything else—like showing himself cycling
in front of a zillion people. Despite the nice comments he heard, like the one in his father’s office, there were still a
few people who still saw the old Doug Cannon when they looked at him.

He tried to avoid checking himself out in the mirror, but he still caught glimpse of bulges here and there. Those rolls didn’t
just disappear like magic. He still had a way to go.

And what if something unexpected happened during the event. Pepper Meade and the gang were due back any day. Leave it to them
to do something stupid
like throw banana peels in front of him. That’s just the sort of thing they’d think was funny. Well, maybe they wouldn’t
even know the event was taking place—much less that he was in it.

Doug groaned. There were so many things that could go wrong. Maybe he ought to just chuck it all and spend his time practicing
video games on his computer. Someday the arcade would reopen.

His thoughts were interrupted by Kate shouting to his mother in the dining room. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. “I
want to watch the local news on TV to see the long-range weather forecast.”

“Well, I’m ready for dinner,” said Doug. “I’m starved.”

They were camped on the living room floor watching TV.

As he got up to leave, the TV announcer caught him by surprise.

“A final note before the weather. The video arcade damaged by fire will be open for business at its new location in just a
week. The grand opening is scheduled for next Saturday.
”

Next Saturday! The same day as the Tour de Lake-ridge! Rats! Well, it would just have to wait.

Doug had been training hard for the past week. He’d collected a slew of pledges and had turned in his registration form.

He’d also studied the course. He found out exactly where the rest stops would be and worked that into his training schedule.
It was good to know that he wouldn’t have to go the full twelve miles without a stop.

Most of the kids in his beginners’ group in the club had also entered the event, including Billy. One had to go off to the
seashore with her family, so she couldn’t. Another one just didn’t feel up to it.

During the past Saturday training session, Red had gone over everything he thought they should know. His closing advice was,
“Remember, this isn’t an official competition. You’ll probably have a lot more events like this in your lives. But it’s your
first, so try to enjoy it. And good luck.”

By that point, Doug knew for sure that he could do the course. The question was, would he disgrace himself by coming in last?
He knew it wasn’t a race, but he didn’t want to be the last one in his group to cross the line. And again, the chance of a
surprise, what if
he didn’t finish at all? How could he show up at the picnic after that?

The picnic, that was something else to think about. There’d probably be lots of people he knew there. Maybe he could simply
do the course, then slip away without going to the picnic. Instead, he could zip over to the arcade and try out any new machines
they had.

Kate clicked off the TV and said, “No big weather news. Let’s eat. Hey, you need to make sure you’re getting all your vitamins.
You’ll need all your strength for Saturday. That reminds me, we have to talk strategy. Oh, I know, Red’s a good coach, but
I am what’s called a veteran observer. I can give you a pointer or two.”

“Are you planning to watch it? I mean, are you really interested in it?” Doug asked.

“Are you kidding? Terry and I are going to watch it from the start. Then we’re going to cut across so we can see you go by
about midway. And then we’re going to zip over to see you come in at the finish,” she said. “Mom and Dad will meet us there
with some extra treats for the picnic.”

“Great,” said Doug, sitting down at the table.

That takes care of any plans to hit the arcade. I’ll have to wait until Monday, he decided.

The scene in front of the Lakeridge Cycling Club on Saturday was something Doug could never have imagined. There were hundreds
of cyclists all decked out in full gear. They were walking, leaning on, straddling, or simply holding on to a huge variety
of bikes. Half the people had white cards with jet-black numbers on the front and back of their shirts. Others were standing
in line waiting for theirs to be handed out.

Edging his way through the crowd, Doug found the registration desk with “A to F” posted on a sign above it.

“Cannon, Douglas Cannon,” he said to the gray-haired man seated in front of a large file box.

“Right, here you are. Number 603. I hope it’s a lucky one for you,” came the reply. “Oh, you’re in the twelve-mile course.
It doesn’t begin for another two hours. That is the right one, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,” said Doug. “I just wanted to be here for the very beginning. I don’t want to miss any part of it.”

A few minutes later, the gun went off as the fifty-
milers took off on their long, grueling ride. An hour later the thirty-milers would take to the road.

“Gosh, I don’t know how they do it!”

“Has anyone seen my kid sister?”

“Don’t forget, we’ll meet at the picnic.”

“Where’d I leave my bike?”

“Twelve miles and it’s mostly uphill!”

The noise built steadily as the crowd grew and grew. Doug was bounced back and forth until he knew he had to get out of the
way for a minute. He didn’t think he was nervous, but suddenly he couldn’t sit still

He wandered into the club to fill his water bottle with fresh, cold water. Maybe that would cool him off a little. He just
had to stay calm and focused. After all, it was just a simple twelve-mile ride. Piece of cake. Sure!

He was screwing on the cap when a familiar form sporting number 636 appeared in front of him.

“Hey, you’re early, too,” he said to Billy Torrant.

“Yeah,” said Billy, walking by him.

Doug was startled. That’s it? he thought. Nothing else to say, like “Good luck” or “May the best man win” or anything like
that? Then he considered. Hey,
maybe he’s just concentrating—and that’s exactly what I should do, too.

He wandered outside, where he found himself a quiet, shady patch of grass under a tree. It was a great place to do his warm-up
exercises. He hated them, but he knew how important they were.

When the twelve-milers finally lined up for their start, there were a lot of unfamiliar faces. Some were kids his age. Some
were a little bit older. And some were real veterans, with lots of gray hair showing from under their helmets. In fact, in
all this crowd, Doug was hard pressed to pick out the handful from his training group who had actually shown up. Except for
Billy, of course. Even if his number 636 wasn’t visible, his height always made him a standout.

As he waited for the starting gun, Doug wiggled his fingers to loosen the tension. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his
wrists and at the side of his forehead. It seemed to climb higher and higher as the wait stretched out. Deep breaths, he told
himself. Long, deep breaths.

A zillion thoughts came rushing into his head like a flood. Was he going to make a fool of himself? Did he
look silly in his racing gear? Did it really matter whether he did well or not?

Bang!

The race was on. No more time for wasteful thoughts. Every effort had to be concentrated on his cycling. It was the one thing
that had to be in the forefront of his mind at all times.

He started out pedaling like a madman, possessed with one desire: to zoom straight out there. Even though Red had gone over
strategy with him, he forgot everything about keeping up a steady pace.

Then he saw her: Kate. She was waving at him. No, she was pushing her arms down and shouting something. Peace! No,
pace,
that was it. She was telling him to slow down and keep a steady pace.

He got the message. He started pedaling a nice, smooth, regular stroke. He put the stress on the back as he rode through the
upstroke, solid and regular. It put him smack in the center of the pack as they rode along a level stretch. For the first
mile or so, there was some dropping back and pulling forward by the other cyclists. Without glancing to one side or another,
he could see a couple of familiar riders dropping out of the main pack to the rear. Neither of them was wearing
number 636. Billy was nowhere in sight at the moment.