miracle mile
Jordan
The spokes are spiraling. I watch them fluctuate, the thinnest glistening tendrils. They’re moving, somehow. Oscillating through
the air. Every last wheel is this writhing mass of metal tentacles. I pinch my eyes shut, steadying my breath—keep it together, just keep cool, keep breathing, keep yourself from freaking the fuck out—then open them again.
The bike’s spokes are back to normal. Nothing’s moving now. Just my imagination. Again. Sure seems to be happening more and more these days.
I’m losing it.
I wish Lilith was here. Who knows? Maybe she is and I just haven’t sensed her yet. We bolted from the museum after I got yelled
at by a security guard—no touching the art. I’m lucky I didn’t get arrested. Lilith simply ditched, hopping to another body, the two of us separating on the way out,
losing each other. I haven’t seen—sensed—her since.
We disconnected. Now I’m feeling empty without her.
Time away from her stretches. There’s an elasticity to it, like saltwater taffy, where the seconds extend and bend and eventually
snap. It’s hard to focus without her here.
I don’t want to be here.
I had completely forgotten about the Miracle Mile. I would’ve blown off the race without even realizing it if it hadn’t been for Lys reaching out to remind me.
“You’re riding, right?” Lys asked over the phone, even though I’m pretty sure she already knew my answer. I could hear the
lift in her voice. The hope. A fleck of determination. The previous year’s winner always starts the race off. They’re the
grand marshal to the night parade. Since I’d won last year, I needed to be there. Tradition and all.
It always hurts to let Lys down. “Think I’m sitting this year out, Lys . . . Sorry.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
The other end of the line went silent. For a second there, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d hung up on me. I wouldn’t put
it past her. She had every right to be pissed.
Finally, I heard her take a quick breath, then she said, “We’re all starting to take bets whether you’re ever gonna saddle
up again . . .”
“What’s the kitty up to so far?” Since when have I ever turned down a bet?
Sodium lights strike metal at night in a way they never do during the day. Sunlight doesn’t capture the metal, but streetlights
sure do. It shines. These bikes ignite at night. Something about the steel, the chrome itself, the way it interacts with the
streetlamps . . . I can’t help but see them as underwater creatures. Not the type of fish you’d find swimming along the surface, gliding through the sunlight. No—these
are the kinds of translucent sea life that inhabit the deepest shadows along the ocean floor, where there is no sunlight.
Nothing but darkness all around. These bikes have a bioluminescence to them.
The devil just next to me executes a wheelie, freestyling for several seconds on nothing but his rear tire, his front wheel spinning in the air.
I catch a glint of metal under the nearest streetlamp as this Beelzebubba’s legs work the pedals, weaving over the road in this upright unicycle position, and I swear—for just a second—I see his bike as some sort of psychedelic jelly.
The way Satan’s limbs move along with his bike, fanning about, the precarious balance of his body on the rear tire, the glimmer of chrome under the sodium lights, the rest swallowed up by the surrounding shadows—it all makes him look like the strangest jellyfish I’ve ever seen, swimming about the bottom of the ocean.
He’s not alone. There are bound to be dozens—Jesus, hundreds—of deep-sea riders out tonight, surrounding me at this very second, just waiting to launch into the darkness.
What the fuck am I doing here? Where’s Lilith? I’m doing my damnedest to scan the crowd, see if I can find her. Feel her out
there. So far, no dice. It’s all cold. Melting faces.
I shouldn’t be riding. It’s too soon. Way too soon.
Too late now.
At the stroke of midnight, costumed cyclists will be released into Richmond, taking over its streets. The roads are ours tonight.
Alley cats are unsanctioned bike races organized by its messengers. Not your pop’s spandex brand of bike marathon.
There are prizes—FTF: First to Finish. DFL: Dead Fucking Last. Best In Show.
Since I won FTF last year, that lands me an automatic starter position. Front of the line. Precisely what I don’t want. Not
that I can tell Lys that. This is her event. If I didn’t show, I’d be in deep shit. She was fucking relentless with her texts:
Dragging u outta ur shell. Don’t be such a chickenshit. C’mon. Man up saddle up show these assholes who u r.
So here I am, at the last place I want to be right now.
On my bike.
A loaner, actually. Freel offered his spare. A decent ride, but still. It doesn’t feel like a part of me. I’m disconnected
from the metal.
We don’t blend.
I’m saddled up amongst hundreds of other riders, the streets filled with bikes. Fixed gears. Dirt bikes. A few ten-speeds. Some Schwinns. All kinds, all species of bike.
Everybody’s chatting amongst themselves. Patting backs. Drinking already. It’s a rowdy bunch, these riders. True gruelers.
The Miracle Mile takes something out of you, but what you get in return is the adrenaline. The feeling of being a part of
a fleet, overwhelming the streets. A fucking stampede of spokes. Have you ever tapped into something like that? The surge?
The sense of being a part of a group, a mass of metal, unstoppable?
Nothing but speed?
I want that feeling back. It’s here, amongst these gearheads. I see it all around me.
So why do I still feel so outside of it all? How do I get back in? Inside myself? I can’t feel anything anymore. Everything
is so . . . so . . .
dead inside
. . . numb. The nerves are all frayed. A disconnected circuit.
I only feel connected—
possessed
—with Lilith. That dizzy delirium that comes with letting someone new into your life. Letting them in. The presence of another,
the very invasion of it. The loss of time. The blackouts. Giving yourself over to it. Making a sacrifice out of yourself for
something new.
“You ready?” Freel asks, snapping me back to the street. He’s right beside me on his own bike, all saddled up and ready to
ride. Deak is rolling back and forth on his wheels.
My chaperones. “I’m good,” I say.
“You got this,” Deak says, sensing my apprehension. “We’re with you.”
“Every step,” Freel agrees. “But if you win, I’ll be pissed.”
Lys stomps through the street with her bullhorn. She blares the built-in air raid siren for a second, so we all give her our undivided attention. “Listen up! Everybody’s got to get their spoke cards. You want to race? You gotta be tagged. Find me if you still need one.”
Lys always uses tarot cards. This year, I’m the Devil. How fitting. There’s that bare-bellied Beelzebub squatting on his throne,
one clawed hand held up in the air.
My registration number?
666.
Lys is just fucking with me. So be it. I slip my card between the spokes on my rear wheel, bag it and tag it, just like everyone
else who’s registered to be a part of this race.
The beasts come out at night. We want to wake up Richmond. Hear us all howl from miles out. There’s no stopping us. Not tonight.
I can do this. I know I can.
These are my people.
Were, at least. They can be again, as long as I reconnect to myself. Find my soul out here, wherever I left it. Probably in
the gutter, somewhere. Tumbled down a drainage ditch.
Satan nods just next to me, all painted red. Horns on his helmet and everything. His pointed tail slithers over the back of
his bike and I worry it’s going to get caught in the wheel. His pitchfork is in hand, poking the people around him. Black
painted mustache.
I almost expect him to slide up and ask where I’ve been. Been looking everywhere for you, bro . . . What’s up? But no, Satan’s got his hands full with a keg-stand at the moment.
This feels wrong, all wrong. What in the hell am I doing here?
The Grim Reaper is on my right. It takes a couple blinks to realize it’s just some guy sporting a black balaclava with a skull.
My bad. His lower jawbone stretches across the front, teeth reaching all the way back to his ears. A grinning rictus.
The vampires are out tonight, too. I spot a few Lugosis. The triangular widow’s peak painted across their forehead in stark black polish. The plastic fangs. Some werewolf masks. A few Pretty Ponies. I see a couple Brides of Frankenstein. A handful of Dragulas.
It’s Halloween smack dab in the dog days. I see so many skeletons, a real rumba line of bones. The humidity slickens everyone’s
makeup, even at night. Faces melt already.
Keep it together, Jordan. You got this. Lock that shit down.
You can feel the energy in the air. The tension. Like a metal spring, all coiled up and eager to release. The electricity
of it all is gathering. All the cycles. The riders just waiting to hit the streets. The different brands of bikes, all modded
up to fit the needs to the rider.
These riders are all welcoming death. Their bikes won’t save them. Metal bends. Bones break. Someone’s gonna die tonight, I think. Not me. Not again. Once was enough.
You got this, I think. You can do this. But I can’t. The fear seeps into my system, flooding me from the inside out, and I know, I just know I’m going to drown if
I don’t—
“Line up, riders!” Lys barks into her bullhorn.
A cheer rises from the crowd. These street machines are primed and ready to go.
“Mount up,” Lys shouts. Her voice sounds tinny. The bullhorn burns her words, singed with static. “First checkpoint is . . .
wait for it . . . General Lee on Monument Ave.”
Great. Fucking great. We all have to haul our asses through the Fan. Tight streets. Whole lot of bottlenecking. Some blowhard
is inevitably going to push through, plow around the bikes in front of him and cause a pile-up. Somebody’s bound to run a
light and get clipped by some car that doesn’t know any better. Blood is bound to spill tonight.
Not mine. Not again.
I do a quick mental calculation: Broad to Harrison to Monument. Three minutes flat.
I can do that.