Sean Griswold's Head (23 page)

THIRTY

The alarm rings at four. As in four
AM
. The four that happens in the morning. The four that no sane person ever sees because they're nestled in bed, not squeezing into spandex and polyester. Not coughing down an organic protein bar. Not spewing it up five minutes later.

I have no idea what sort of warm-up I'm supposed to do for this race. I do my basketball stretches on the cold kitchen floor in the vain hope it'll wake me. Trent wakes up all by himself. Well, partially. He downs two cups of coffee before he even acknowledges my presence, and then all I get is a nod toward the garage.

I'm a pretzel of nerves. The car ride to the city is spent second-, third-, and fourth-guessing my decision to do this race. It doesn't really prove anything. Spinning the bike pedals isn't going to perform any voodoo magic that will heal my dad. All that spinning the bike pedals is going to do is make me incredibly sore, which is actually counterproductive to the whole healing ideal.

The Camden fairgrounds are a mass of wheels, neon, and perfectly sculpted calves. Every one of the hundreds of cars has a bike rack, some with people stretching nearby, or tying up their shoes or clipping on helmets. Teams of riders, some hundreds strong, converge in their designated tents, their matching jerseys demanding intimidation. There's a tent for the police department's team—not the donut-inhaling variety, the kind that make you actually want a traffic ticket. There are business companies, consulting firms, pharmaceutical salesmen. The pink jerseys with bright daisies on the sleeves are the uniform for a local flower shop. The asphalt and buzz of the crowd warms us all some, but not enough to stop the bite of an early April morning.

“Sure you don't want me to stay?” Trent asks as he drags my bike out of the backseat.

“There's nothing for you to do. Just keep your cell on and I'll call when I decide I'm done.”

“So when you make it to Ocean City.”

“IF I make it to Ocean City. Let's not set unrealistic expectations. I'll do what I can. I've never gone seventy-five miles before.”

“You will.” Trent yawns and stretches. His shirt creeps up and reveals his swimmer stomach. A girl in the car over gawks. That's my brother, I say. With my eyes. “So am I supposed to give you a pep talk or anything?”

“What you just said is fine.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” I kick the bike tires, checking the air for the millionth time.

Trent hops from one foot to the other. “Do we need to hug now?”

“No. Would you leave?”

“Good.” Trent smiles. “Because I have a lunch date with Yes. And that chick next to us is checking me out and I don't want to ruin her dreams by hugging my little sister.”

“Her dreams are preserved. Go home.” I click my shoes into my bike, standing on the pedals as I leave Trent to his admirer. Since I am a team of one, Payton Power we'll call it, or the Gritas Grenadier, or just plain old Payton Gritas—wannabe biker and freaking scared girl, I don't latch on to any of the groups but instead weave through the crowds to the sign-in table. I click out of my pedals and stash my bike in one of the many racks so I can get into line.

I spot the G–H line one second, and Sean standing at the end of it the next. The alphabetical connection never ends. From school lunch lines to major bike rides. He can't escape me. I can't escape him.

At first I think he just doesn't see me when I offer a small wave. But after standing two people behind him for over seven minutes, I know I'm being ignored. I count the many bruises on my legs, looking for meaning in their shapeless shapes. It's all so stupid, acting like we aren't ten feet away from each other. Acting like we weren't kind of, sort of, but not really, a couple.

Sean signs in and attaches his number to a jersey so brightly orange, he could hop off his bike and direct traffic. The lady at the table hands him his red bandanna, the bandanna that symbolizes you're riding for someone with MS. Most people here are doing the ride for fun. There's only a sprinkling of bandannas in the crowds. Sean loops his through a hole in his helmet and ties it into a Boy Scout–worthy knot. Even though the orange shirt is the attention-getter, the bandanna is what sticks out. Maybe it's the way he's tied it. Maybe it's just because it's on his head.

He turns around and because I'm staring at him, he can't help but make eye contact. His face is blank, like there is a force field separating us. A force field I created.

This is stupid. We can talk! Just because we aren't … whatever we were … doesn't mean we can't be civil.

“Good luck,” I say. Not that he needs luck. He's Hercules.

He nods, the bandanna nodding as well. “You too.”

“Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

It's my turn in line and the lady is tapping her pen, waiting for me to move up. I shift to the side of the line so the next person can go, a bold move indicating I still want to talk to Sean.

“You doing the whole thing?” I ask.

“I'm doing the hundred. With the added loop. Not riding it back though. I've got to be back tonight.”

“Oh really? Why?”

“I have plans.”

Plans.
Plans
is the polite word you use when you don't want to say what you're doing or don't want to invite the other person along. Like to a party. Or a date.

“Oh.”

“How long are you riding?” Sean is no longer looking at me, but past me, like he wants the conversation to be done. He takes some sunglasses out—the funky kind that curve around his face, the style all the pro cyclists wear—and slides them on.

I didn't know the answer before he asked it. But when he looks away like that, like I've accomplished my bizarre goal, like he's really moved on, I answer. “Here to the shore. One way. The seventy-five miles.”

He startles. “Really? Are you sure?” I might be deliriously hopeful, or hopeless, but I think I detect worry in his voice. “This isn't a ride around Valley Forge. Serious athletes who have trained for months aren't able to finish.”

“I've done Valley Forge, hill and all, hundreds of times now.”

A smile flicks across his face. “Hundreds?”

“Well, I haven't exactly counted. Maybe forty-five. I started tripling up in the end. No, I went last weekend, so forty-eight? And I did three rides to the city and back, although last weekend I took a shortcut—”

“Why are we talking?” Sean asks.

I blink. “Why? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I distinctly remember you saying you didn't want this. And Grady told me you compared me to a dog last night. And now you're going on like nothing's happened.”

“I didn't compare you to a dog! Tell him he's a lousy middle man.”

Sean lets out a loaded sigh and scratches the back of his neck. I want to shrivel up. He so doesn't want to talk to me. “What's the story, Payton?”

The story is I still like you but I'm not sure what's best for us. I'm not sure if I'm best for you, or if I should ever let another person into my life. I'm not sure I even deserve you, just like I really don't deserve my dad. The only thing I deserve is your annoyance, which is killing me. “I don't know. I wish I did.”

Sean's face goes soft for a moment. “I wish you did too.” Then he shakes his head, like he's shaking away the thought. “Look, I hope you have a great ride. If you want to talk, really
talk
afterward”—he pauses and tugs at his helmet straps—“I'll be around.” He pedals away.

He'll be around. He's still around.

I zip right back in line, ignoring the accusatory stares. I have to get my sign-in time ASAP. I have to be as close to Sean as I can. Keep him in sight. Use his head to clear my own. Figure out what I want to say, if there even
is
anything to say. The only thing separating me from talking to him is a few hours. A few hours and seventy-five fun-filled miles.

THIRTY-ONE

There is no gunshot to start the race. What a relief. I've always worried where the bullet goes that gets shot. We have helmets on, so we should be safe there, but there are all those limbs, and the possibilities of a ricochet or misfire and thus multiple casualties.

So no gunshot. It's pretty anticlimatic, actually. Just a lady standing at the start line, organizing each group into their start times, which are five minutes apart. Mine isn't scheduled until later, but I sneak into the one after Sean's, which is a slew of geneticists with double helixes gracing their shirts. Everyone just starts riding, so I don't know if there was a
Hurrah! Go get 'em!
Or just a “Go.” I ditch the science geeks, intent on finding Sean. This is no easy feat with the endless stream of bikers around us, not to mention I have to pass them all to catch up.

The ride follows a four-way, sometimes two-way road that winds from Camden, which is just across the Delaware from Philadelphia, through the forest and scattered cities of New Jersey, over two massive concrete bridges, and into Ocean City. The road we begin on is larger, and cars cautiously cruise by us as the bikers converge from a solid mass into more uniform lines. Those drafting lines lessen the air resistance, making it easier to pedal. I haven't had that advantage in my solo riding, not to mention the terrain is mostly flat.

I thought I was in shape when I played basketball, but I can feel a new strength in my muscles, in my calves. The promise of endurance and ability and greatness. I am a cyclist now. There's no escaping the fact that this is a sport and I am an athlete.

I zip past rider after rider, looping in and around the bulk of wheels until I see Sean's head, and the helmet with the bandanna flapping along. I'm so mesmerized by Sean, I almost rear-end the biker in front of me.

It's weird I still react like this. It's weirder that I went so long NOT reacting like this, that I saw Sean day in and day out for years without once thinking about what I was seeing, or who was beyond what I was seeing.

Sean skips the first rest stop.
Ugh. Slow down! You're not doing the Ironman yet
. But I still follow, staring longingly at the Gatorade the volunteers distribute.

I settle into my groove and alternate between gazing at Sean's bandanna and surveying the surroundings. Spring is on the cusp of springing, and although the trees are still mostly bare, a few buds pop out against the bleak landscape. I notice a biker next to me wearing a Marines jersey. He's a real bulldog, forty-something, so chiseled he makes Sean look like a puppy.

Sean slows down ahead of us. I love puppies.

Bulldog's bike is deluxe, with a smooth, lightweight design I vaguely remember. I've seen the bike before. At the bike shop Sean and I went to the day we ditched class.

I can remember everything Sean had described about the bike. How the handlebars were more compact and the seat more narrow. How I could carry it with my pinkie it was so light. I listened so intently at the time, desperate to keep my mind busy and away from thoughts of Miss Marietta and her dad, of whom I knew no details. Like, what was his name? What did he do for a living? What was his relationship like with Miss Marietta? These are the normal things you think about when someone dies. You don't focus on alloy wheels. Just like when your dad gets sick you don't spend your energy on a cute boy's head.

But I'm making up for it. If I really do the seventy-five miles, I can earn enough money to make the Silver Donations list. I can go to my dad and say, look how much I raised. I'm with it. I'm here. I'm here for you. And we can talk about what we should talk about. I can do it. I can. Soon.

We come to the second rest stop. I wobble off my bike, ready for a break. Sean wheels over to the sport drinks, grabs two, and downs them both in the amount of time it takes me to remove the cap. He's not looking at me, but I'm all right with this. I'll get his attention when I cross the finish line.

I'd hoped to take a good twenty-minute break, but Sean's back on the bike after ten, and when your Focus Object goes, you follow. Even with the short rest, I feel revived. Giddy. I'm more than halfway there. I have a head to use as a compass. I've got this thing. It's mine.

Then, five miles from the rest stop, I see a sign that says,
LOOP AND FIFTY-MILE MARK: FIVE MILES
. The loop. Sean's doing the loop—the extra course that adds twenty-five miles to the ride. I'd totally forgotten about it. Now Sean will be gone and I'll have twenty-five miles of nothing to look at but the Garden State.

I can see the turnoff ahead. For every biker that turns, there are five that go straight. I won't be alone when Sean turns. I can just stare at someone else. Or just think about something else.

Except I can't. Sean makes the turn and I'm instantly paralyzed, watching his bandanna as it disappears around a corner. All I see now is failure. As a safety precaution, I pull off to the side of the road to get my bearings and figure out what to do.

I don't do
anything
for a good fifteen minutes. Taking the break helps my nerves, but with each second that ticks by, it's harder and harder to get going again. I could end now. I did fifty miles, that's something to be proud of. Trent can come pick me up and—

No. The first time I did Valley Forge, I never thought I could FINISH it. Especially not alone. Besides, it's a much hillier ride than this. Shorter, of course, but I also never had drafters. I can think of this as an elongated Valley Forge. I didn't have a stupid bandanna to look at back then. And I did it.

I'll count to ten. When I hit ten, I'll start biking again. When I hit ten, I'll be on the road, headed toward that oasis instead of looking back at the panther. Or jaguar. I can't remember. Whatever jungle beast is going to get me going again.

Ten comes and goes. So does a hundred. Yet I'm still in the ditch, counting my little heart out. I totally want to do this. I do. But for some reason, my body doesn't.

I take off my helmet to tug my ponytail tighter and touch my bandanna. The bandanna I'm wearing because I know someone with MS.

I rub it between my fingers. It's soaked with my sweat, but still has some brand-new crispness. This is the bandanna I should be focusing on. Not Sean's.

I keep massaging the bandanna, images of the past few months flashing in my head. Mom holding that needle, Dad trying to shoot hoops, the picture of Sean on his mom's website. My Focus Journal.

More time passes. I'm not sure how much.

My Focus Object is gone now. If I want to get through this I need to just … focus. Period. Finish this thing.

I can do it.

Me, all alone.

I slide the bandanna off and shove my helmet back on. I tie the material through the front slit, so the tips cover my forehead. It's like dangling a carrot in front of a pony so it will move. And I do. I move.

Actually, I fly.

I spend the next twenty-five miles soaring. The bandanna absorbs my sweat as I pass biker after biker. It absorbs my tears as I cross the first bridge that leads us into Ocean City. Not that I'm looking at it now. There's way too much going on.

Purple and green balloons arch gracefully over the people-lined main street. Everyone slows here, taking in the applause and cheers. There are signs saying,
THANK YOU FOR BELIEVING!
or
THIS ONE'S FOR CHARLIE
or
BIKE YOUR BALLS OFF
with a picture of a guy biking in a Speedo. And even the weird Speedo poster inspires me. I don't know a single soul in the crowd. I don't need to.

The bikers ahead of me thin out and I can see the finish line. I stand up on my pedals and cruise across, pumping one arm (not two; “look mom, no hands” is a recipe for disaster) up in victory. The moment's so sweet, there should be music playing. Stand up and dance music like in classic teen movies, where the crowd would rush out and carry me away. But first, my dad would show up and tell me he's cured and Sean would interrupt our father/daughter hug to give me a kiss. Then, the carrying away part would continue until I do one final arm thrust in the air and the credits roll.

But it's not a movie. Three other people cross the same time as me. A smiling, bouncy girl hands me a plastic medal. And now it's done. I slow down and stop, taking note of what everyone else is doing. They're off their bikes stretching and chatting as if they'd simply strolled down the beach, parking their bikes on a nearby rack. I set my bike down on the grass and make a beeline to the Porta-Pottis. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I realize how bad I have to pee.

When I'm done, I walk down to the beach. It's still too cold to swim, but there are a scattering of people. I take off my shoes and walk barefoot along the shore, settling down into a partially secluded spot to call Trent.

“Hey,” I say when he answers. “I'm done.”

“Where are you?”

“Sitting on the beach, right by the finish line.”

“Hold on a second. I have a beep.” He clicks over for a few seconds, then whistles when he's back on. “So you finished it.”

“Was there ever a doubt?”

“Not from me. You ready to go home?”

“Yeah, can you come get me?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I arranged alternative transportation.”

“Trent, this isn't funny. I've biked seventy-five freaking miles. My butt's hurting, my legs are dead, and I just want to sleep for a few days. Will you please come? Now?”

“No can do, little sis. Be glad. Your ride is already there.”

“Where?”

“Look around. You'll see him.”

“Him? Trent, who is it?”

“What? What? I can't hear you. The phone's cutting out … You must have bad reception. What's that? What's that—” He hangs up.

He better not have sent a slacker friend. Just what I need, a few hours of loser BO and whiny punk rock after—

“Hey, sunshine.”

I shoot up. My alternative transportation has arrived.