Chapter 11
Agurgle in my stomach reminds me that lunch only consisted of measly sandwiches.
Usually I make sure to load up on carbs before a ride, let alone a competition day.
But that habit isn’t something I particularly want Reid to witness.
Hell, I don’t even want Riley to see me shove my face with mass amounts of pasta.
It’s a stupid thing to be worried about.
I know that. Reid would support just about any pre-ride ritual I wanted if he thought it’d make me feel more confident.
Ultimately, I don’t want to admit I need any special protocols.
Everyone else can simply get up there and do the damn thing without a second thought.
Logically, I know they must train, but I never see it happening. Most of these riders can shotgun a beer and land a perfect canyon gap. I’m sickeningly jealous of that.
Driving down Cache Street in the daylight looks remarkably different than it does at night.
The cowboy bar somehow looks ten times cheesier now that it’s basking in the sun.
I do my best to forget how stupid I was last night, trying to forget the skimpy sundress I put on and how I trampled around like some fake buckle bunny flirting with Reid.
He only gave me his shirt to be nice. It means nothing more, and it never will. I need to remember that.
We’re still driving to the hotel. Mountain towns are my favorite places to be, but the traffic can be a nightmare.
The speed limit is only twenty-five miles per hour through most of Jackson.
Once you get downtown, it drops to fifteen miles per hour but you’re lucky if you get to ten.
There are clueless tourists crawling about, oooing and awing at every piece of taxidermy they see.
The hot leather seats are making my thighs stick. The air is thick with sweat, and it’s getting harder to take in deep breaths. This feeling always hits me before an event. My skin is too tight, and there isn’t enough space in my rib cage to accommodate my thumping heart.
Reid rolls down his window. I’m not sure if he’s feeling claustrophobic too or if he can tell I’m spiraling—I hope he can’t.
In case he can, I make a last ditch effort to salvage my inhales before they tumble away from me. It doesn’t work—a soft wheeze escapes my mouth. It’s a perfect imitation of that penguin from Toy Story. Thankfully, the music is loud enough that neither of them seem to take note of it.
The cap of my water bottle falls to the floor of the car as I shove it off. There’s one tiny half melted ice cube left. Fishing for it, I finally grasp it, and it melts away before I can glide it all the way across my forehead—but it helps.
Reid jumps out of the passenger door before Riley even shifts into park. He couldn’t wait to get out of this prison of a car either.
The backs of my thighs sting as I peel them away from the sweltering seats yet again. Once the sun comes out in these mountain towns, the air can quickly turn from lovely to lava. We’re firmly in lava territory now. Riley shoots me a look and she motions to Reid as he walks over towards his van.
My shoulders shrug in response. This is normal for us. Before rides, we each drown in our default coping mechanisms. He gets reckless and I ruminate—that’s who we are.
Reid will drive back to the boat yard to drink and skateboard, or whatever it is they do in that polyurethane playground. I’ll sit in a scalding shower and try to envision every turn and jump until my skin is raw and wilted.
I say a silent prayer that I’ll actually have access to a scalding shower tonight. That’s a luxury I won’t have for the rest of the trip, and I’m honestly not sure how I’ll make do without it.
Riley heads straight for the hotel entrance after locking her rental car. I follow her, but Reid grabs my wrist before I can move forward. His eyes bore into mine. I can’t shift mine away fast enough.
The green depths pull me in like they always do, and my walls fall some—enough for him to see it. My internal struggle isn’t as internal as I had hoped, because something shifts in his gaze. Reid is backing away an inch, swallowing hard.
He corrects himself and steps forward before pulling me into a hug. His rushing exhale skates against my scalp.
“You’re gonna crush it, Blondie.”
For once, I’m glad for the nickname. It makes me roll my eyes and forces a half chuckle out. I pull myself out of his arms before I let myself get comfortable there—it’d be easy to do.
He towers over me, and somehow I feel like I shrunk over the course of the drive. Reid has always been tall, much taller than me. But it has never felt quite so obvious. His eyebrows raise like he can sense exactly what I’m thinking. I hate how he can do that.
Reid takes his big hands and firmly places them on either side of my head, forcing me to tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
“Adelaide, you are one of the best riders in your division. Everyone knows that except for you.”
I want to reply, but I don’t trust my voice right now. Instead, my eyes drift closed and I do my best to let Reid’s kind words sink into my skin, even if they’re lies. At least they’re sweet lies.
“I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, okay?”
His voice wavers a little, like he’s worried I won’t show up.
Of course I’ll show up. There’s no other option.
I said I was going to compete, so I’ll compete.
The only way out of this is on a bike or in the back of an ambulance.
I nod back, wishing I could find it within me to give him some kind words too.
My shoes melt into the hot concrete as I watch him walk back to the van. Riley is nowhere to be found. She must have gone to find solace in the air conditioned hotel lobby. At least I hope she stayed in the lobby, because I don’t have a key.
Part of me wishes Reid would had gotten a hotel room. Maybe I should text him and tell him to sleep in Willa, it’s going to be hot tonight. His van doesn’t have air conditioning or even adequate air flow, so it feels like the courteous thing to do since I won’t be sleeping there.
I’m not sure my daydreams can handle him sleeping in my sheets, even when I’m sleeping somewhere else.
Riley showers first since I know I’d end up using all of the hot water and don’t want to throw being inconsiderate on top of being anxious. I pace around, trying to let the view out of the window calm me down, but instead it does the opposite.
I can see the outlines of the trails all the way from here. The unobstructed view of the gondola would probably be a selling point for most hotel guests, but for me it’s an incessant reminder of what awaits me tomorrow.
Tomorrow’s event will take place at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort.
In the winter, the lifts carry snowboarders and skiers, but in the summer they let bikers use the gondolas.
Most ski resorts do this now, and it’s wonderful.
This way we can experience all of the downhill terrain without any of the uphill work.
I’ve ridden here before—once just for fun, and once for an exhibition ride—but never for an actual competition.
It’s not a race per say, although speed is one factor that they judge you on.
Each individual gets to ride the trail on their own, and riders are scored based on speed, technical skill, and style.
Technical skill is my strong suit. I’ve studied the trails and the features to the best of my abilities.
If they would let me, I’d walk the trail for days before the competition just to plan out my every turn.
They closed the bike park all week so that no rider had an advantage over another.
The first time any of us will see the final trail and the conditions of the dirt will be the moment the announcers blow the first horn during the qualifier.
I’m going second, in the girls division that is. Typically, girls ride after the guys do—it’s unfair. I wish we could go first, that way there’s nothing to compare ourselves to.
The longer I have to fidget my feet in the dirt before riding, the worse I do.
Riley taps on my shoulder, breaking me from my stare-off with the bright red gondola in the distance. I let the water run until it resembles the depths of a volcano and let out a sigh of relief as the steam wafts off of my salty skin.
Finally, my lungs fill to capacity and my heartbeat slows down.
I’m not sure when I discovered I needed water to stay grounded, but it’s all that works these days.
I have a therapist—my anxiety levels aren’t normal and I know that—but I’m not sure it’s really helping.
Every session, I log on and consult my notes app to see what issues were jotted down to discuss that day.
I rattle them off to her and ask her what she thinks and she nods.
Awkward silences settle between us as she makes intense eye contact with me.
The way she purses her lips together pisses me off.
I’m not sure if it’s some sort of exposure therapy or what, but it’s not helping.
Since starting therapy, I’m more in my head than ever. Self-awareness has never been my issue. If anything, awareness might be my issue.
The water starts to turn lukewarm, and I reluctantly step over the edge of the shower onto the cold tile. I have to come up with another coping strategy, because this is a luxury I won’t have for the rest of the season.
White cotton envelopes me as I pull on the hotel robe. My immediate thought is to consider how many people have worn this exact robe before me and how gross it is, but I shove the unhelpful idea away before it can take hold.