Page 101 of Dear Pink

“No, honey, be there to support her. Let her know you care. Stand by her side even when it’s difficult. That’s what makes serious relationships work.”

I hug my mom. “Thanks. I will.”

She sways back and grins at me. “We better go inside before your sisters eat all the food.”

Chapter 25 - Hannah

This is it, number two on the bucket list. The complete fear and dread send me into immobilized shock. The insane race should be calledScared as Hell. Months of training, and I still don’t feel ready, but I’m here. I adjust my squishy pink bike shorts and hope the padded butt will be enough to stave off the dreaded boils. It’s 6:00 a.m. and crowds of people pour out of their tents preparing for the race. Our start time isn’t until 8:00. My skin crawls with nerves. June and Maude suggested I hang out at the start line to watch the first riders begin.

Not a smart idea.

Racers pose on their bikes elbow to elbow, waiting for the take-off signal. I foolishly thought with the staggered times, the line wouldn’t be crowded. There must be thousands of bikes gathered together. These bikers mean business. Most of the riders look professional and could beat Mr. Fancy for the best-dressed biker.

At the thought of Gabe, my heart constricts. I wonder if he remembers the race is this weekend. He mentioned coming with me once. Well, before I screwed up. I force the thought aside. I won’t picture his lips lingering on my neck, his huge hands caressing my body—he’s probably moved on already. Plenty of women want him.

I sit to the side, out of the way. The running of the bulls in Spain comes to mind. Indeed, many of the racers resemble angry bulls. The gun goes off and riders struggle to find space. One biker rams into another before moving four inches. He hits another man's spokes and they both tumble to the ground. I cover my mouth to hold in a shriek. Other bikers yell and shove to move forward. The racers behind the angry bulls are stuck. In mass, people steamroll one another. A fallen man in shiny red bike shorts yelps when a rider behind him runs over his hand.

Holy tacos, June’s nightmare has come true. I flinch, imagining myself at the bottom of the heap.

June pats me on the shoulder, and I jump. “Don’t worry, Hannah. We kick off at the rear of the pack. No one tramples the last in line.” Her smile calms me. “We came to participate in the race, not win it.”

I squeeze her hand. “Finishing is my only goal.”

June laughs. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, dear.”

“Okay, ladies.” Maude claps her hands together to get our attention. “It’s almost race time. Let's take care of essentials so we’re ready to ride.”

June and I follow her to the rows of porta-potties. I shiver a little. I’ve avoided the implausible logistics of bathroom breaks during a hundred-mile race.

“Uhh. Guys? Will there be porta-potties along the bike course?”

“Do I tell her?” Maude asks June.

June nods and paints on a sympathetic expression. Oh, no. This can’t be good news.

“Just tell me,” I say.

“There will be a few along the course, but they smell like the subway tunnel in New York. The stations reek. Lots of bikers, the serious ones, pee themselves and keep biking.”

I cover my face with my hands. No one mentioned this part of the deal. Thousands of miles of training and I should have focused on bladder control.

June puts her arm around my shoulder. “Honey, the last time we raced, neither of us had to pee the entire time. We were so dehydrated and hot, our bodies had nothing to spare. We dreamed of water bottles and swimming pools. Neither of us thought about the bathroom. I’m sure it will be the same for you.”

I want to trust her, but when I touch the water reservoir on my back, panic rises. The race directors told us to drink plenty of water. Now, Maude and June tell me I’ll have to pee on myself if I do. Why, Libby? Why?

“Could be worse,” Maude says. “Two years ago, we saw a man crap his pants. Poor guy. Jumped off his bike near a potty station but didn't make it. Talk about disgusting.”

I make a gagging face. “Sooooo wrong.” They share a glance with one another. “Why did I sign up for this?”

Maude’s lips turn into a wicked grin. “For fun, of course.” She ducks into the porta-potty, ending the discussion.

June shakes her head. “Don’t worry.” She pats my shoulder and steps into a vacant bathroom.

While waiting in line for my turn, a man walks up with a small BMX bike. He leans it against a porta-potty and stretches.

I study his child-sized bike. “You racing on that?”

“Yep. I do every year.”

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