Part 7 (1/2)
”Things? What...things?” I evaded.
”The TribRide fiasco for one. Your pedaling partners.h.i.+p with Drew Van Vleet, for another. Team Trekkies, isn't it?”
Small towns had way big ears.
”It all came up rather suddenly,” I told him. ”And Joe said you were out of town.”
”Funny thing about cell phones. You can carry them with you everywhere, so people can call you anytime, anywhere.”
”You were working, and I've been-”
”-busy,” Townsend finished. He shook his head. ”No. What you've been, Tressa, is avoiding me. Admit it. Ever since we got back from the cruise, you've been more elusive than my grandfather when he knows he's got a b.u.t.t-chewing coming for eating too much bacon or for spying on his neighbors again,” Townsend said.
”I've had a lot on my mind.”
”Ditto,” Townsend came back.
”This ride-”
”Is a smokescreen,” Townsend said. ”A dangerous smokescreen.”
”When you say 'dangerous'-”
”How many times did you wipe out?” Townsend asked.
”I beg your pardon.”
”On the tandem. How many times did you fall over? You know. Crash and burn. Bite the dust. Get up close and personal with gravel?”
I frowned. ”Who told?”
Rick took hold of my arm and positioned it to reveal my skinned elbow. ”This told. Along with your peas and heating pad and painful-to-watch impression of the undead. TribRide? What the h.e.l.l? You've got to be kidding. It was like pulling teeth for me to get you on a bike on a path, for crying out loud. Now, you're planning to ride across the entire state on a tandem. How do you figure that's going to play out?”
Painfully probably.
”What can I do?” I said, with a lift of my shoulders. ”It's my job.”
”It's reckless and ridiculous.”
”You mean I'm reckless and ridiculous.” After what happened between the two of us on the cruise, somehow I'd hoped we were beyond the judgments and second-guessing.
That I was past feeling insecure and threatened by the slightest criticism.
Okay. So maybe I wasn't above using my-what's that called again-righteous indignation as a bit of a smokescreen. Maybe there was more angst than anger in my emotional response. Maybe fear rather than ego was in the driver's seat here. Maybe the fact that Townsend and I had put our Hatfield and McCoy history behind us and were moving into uncharted and unfamiliar territory was giving me heart palpitations that screamed, Defibrillator! STAT!
But I'm just guessing here.
”Give it a rest, Tressa. You know that's not what I'm saying,” Rick said. ”I'm simply pointing out that as a biker, you're a novice. Exhibit A here demonstrates that painfully sad, but true, fact. And that fact puts you at risk on an event like TribRide. Accidents happen every year on the ride. Some serious ones.” He squeezed her arm. ”I'm partial to that bootie of yours. I don't want to see it bruised, broken, battered, or the hide ripped off and left along some county blacktop.”
His graphic observation made me a tad bilious.
”I appreciate your concern,” I began, but Townsend cut me off with a don't-even-try-it wave.
”No, you don't. You're insulted and p.i.s.sed off that I would even suggest you aren't up to the task.”
d.a.m.n. He read me like a Field and Stream magazine with a feature on stag-hunting Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.
He picked up my laptop. Clicked the mouse.
”What's this?” He scanned the web page I'd been browsing. ”You planning a journalistic jump to the Enquirer or TMZ?”
I grabbed the computer.
”It's research,” I snapped. ”You know. Just in case.”
”In case you have an opportunity to interview Keelie Keller and her hangers-on.”
I shrugged. ”I'm supposed to cover TribRide. And that includes the riders, as well as the events. So I thought I'd better bone up on the celebs. Not that I think I'll actually get close to any of them.”
Townsend chuckled. ”Somehow I imagine you'll find a way. Have you thought at all about your strategy?” Townsend asked.
”Strategy?”
”Your TribRide strategy.”
”I figured I'd just put my best foot forward,” I said with a snort. ”Get it? Best foot forward.”
Townsend lifted an eyebrow. ”I'm not talking about the physical strategy,” he said. ”I'm referring to your psychological strategy.”
I frowned. ”Psychological...strategy?” Holy spandex. What was I getting myself into?
”There are definite subgroups that partic.i.p.ate in TribRide,” Townsend told me. ”You have to figure out where you fit in best and plan accordingly.”
”What do you mean, 'subgroups'?” I asked, my throat getting tighter.
Townsend leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his hands together.
”First of all, you have the early birds.”
I already didn't like the sound of that.
”Early birds?”
”The gung-ho, aggressive bikers who get up at the b.u.t.t crack of dawn or earlier and take off on the next leg of the ride before the ride has officially started. The early risers are the biker athletes. Early birds push themselves. They're the ones who take the longer, alternative routes when available, are obsessed with their times, and performance, and can't wait to get up and do it all over the next day. It's all about the biking experience.”
That sounded about as fun as being poked in the eye with a sharp spoke.
”You can cross me off that subgroup members.h.i.+p roster,” I said.
Talk about stating the obvious.