Part 4 (2/2)
”Now,” Van Vleet went on. ”I've got the brake engaged so the bike won't roll. The stroker positions the pedal in the lowest position to use as a step. Go ahead and do it.”
I complied.
”Now mount the bicycle. Try to center your balance as much as possible. Okay. Now, clip your feet and tie off the straps.”
I fumbled a bit, but managed to do as he instructed.
”Next you're going to rotate the pedals to a good starting position for me,” Van Vleet said. ”Okay. A little more. There. That should do. Right. We should be ready to go. Remember. We've got to get the bike going quickly so we don't tip over. And it's important that we match our cadence. You do know what that means, right?”
”Oh, shucks, Cap'n. All us strokers know what cadence is,” I guffawed.
”Since you're the weakest link, you determine how fast or slow the cadence is,” Van Vleet went on. ”I'll take my cue from you.”
”How do you figure I'm the weakest link?” I objected. ”I could turn out to be a tandem rock star.”
”Prove it, Witchiepoo,” Van Vleet said.
”Let's roll,” I said with more confidence than I felt ”Okay. I'm going to push off. Ready. And go!”
The tandem shot forward.
”Pedal! Set the cadence!” Van Vleet yelled.
I bent over the handlebars, trying to remember to maintain a centered balance, stepping into the raised pedal with one foot, then the other.
”Faster! Faster!” Van Vleet yelled, and I kicked it up a notch.
”Too slow! Too slow!” Van Vleet's hollered warning came as my right foot somehow managed to come loose from the tie securing it to the pedal. I tried to recover my foothold, and leaned slightly to my left.
”Pedal! Pedal!” Van Vleet yelled.
”I'm trying! I'm trying!” I yelled back.
Every time I thought I'd gained a foothold, the speed of the pedals changed and my foot flailed in mid-air.
”Try harder! I can't do it alone! You're like dead weight back there!”
I felt my balanced center begin to wobble. My one remaining anchor flew off the pedal and both legs shot out in opposite directions.
Look Ma! No feet!
The bicycle began to tip.
”Timber!” I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut to block out the sight of the roadside ditch looming closer and closer.
My prayer during that split-second descent? Dear Lord, protect the teeth. Amen.
Four hours later I had a new appreciation for individuals so committed to the pursuit of health and fitness that they balanced themselves on a seat no bigger than a generous slice of pie and traversed the highways and byways by virtue of leg power-and willpower-alone.
My backside felt like someone had used a hot poker on it. Okay. In it.
That wasn't all.
My thighs hurt. My calves hurt. Even my feet hurt, my toes cramping and curling up like talons clutching prey from being strapped to the d.a.m.ned pedals for so long. I limped to a picnic table and dropped onto the seat, gasping as my b.u.t.tocks. .h.i.t the hard wood.
”You don't look so good,” Van Vleet observed. ”Maybe you better bow out. There's no shame in throwing in the towel. Really. I can do the bike ride solo. Swap this bike out for a one seat number.”
I rubbed a thigh muscle. ”You'd like that, wouldn't you, Drew? I quit. You win whatever idiotic wager is going on, and secure bragging rights into infinity and beyond.” I shook my head. ”Not a chance. I'm in it 'til the bitter end. Back aches, blisters, bad att.i.tudes, and all.”
I may be many things-but, a quitter? Not in my DNA, dude.
Van Vleet secured the bicycle in his truck bed and shut the endgate. ”See you at six.”
”Six?”
”Our next practice. And this time? Wear bike shorts. We can't keep stopping so you can pull your panties out of your b.u.t.t crack.”
I winced.
I'm gonna need a bigger bike seat.
CHAPTER FIVE.
”Water! I need water!”
I dropped into a booth at Hazel's Hometown Cafe, garnering a startled look from the other patrons and a ”what now?” look from chief cook and bottle washer, Donita Smith. Technically, ”Hazel” has been retired for over a decade, but her family continues to run the iconic eatery. At any given time, farmers, retirees, business folk, and busybodies congregate to enjoy a heapin' helping of hometown cooking guaranteed to have you letting out your belt a notch or wis.h.i.+ng you'd donned stretchy pants for the occasion.
Donnie set a gla.s.s of ice water on the table in front of me. I picked it up, drained it.
”A pitcher! I need a pitcher!” I placed the cold plastic to my forehead. ”STAT!” I bellowed when Donnie didn't move quickly enough. I received a ”what did I do to deserve this?” look before she headed back to the counter. By the time she returned with a pitcher of water, I'd chewed half the ice and was ready to dump the other half down the front of my s.h.i.+rt.
Donita filled my gla.s.s. I drained it. She poured me another. I downed it.
”Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're a G.o.dsend, Donnie!” I managed between swallows.
”I don't know whether to call you Tressa or 'camel.' You filling up for a trek across the Sahara?” Donnie asked.
I wished. A caravan across burning sands would probably be more bearable.
”What on earth has you so hot and bothered?” Donnie asked. ”Don't tell me you're on the trail of another dead guy.”
”Maybe the dead guy is on her tail for once. Aren't zombies all the rage these days?” Joltin' Joe Townsend slid into the booth across from me. He picked up a menu. ”What are you having?”
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