Page 103 of Dear Pink

“Roger, you aren’t pulling your fair share,” a woman’s voice whines behind me.

“What are you talking about? I’m pulling my share and more,” an angry male answers.

“Let’s do Hotter'N Hell together. It’ll bring us closer. Tandem is super fun.” Her voice is super snarky and even I’m afraid for a second. “I knew this was an awful idea.”

“Fine. I was wrong. You were right. You wanna stop?”

They draw up beside me, and I see it’s a couple on a bright yellow bike, both frowning. The livid woman sits in the second seat, her mouth pinched with beads of sweat on her face.

“Stop?” the woman yells. “Hell, no. I wanna get to the beer barn at the finish line.”

I chuckle, and they glance over at me. “Uh, hi,” I say. They are clearly in the middle of a fight, and the dude in front is the only one pedaling.

“We're gonna break up over this,” the woman says matter-of-factly.

The man pedals faster. “Let's get to the nearest water station and stop. They can drive us to the beer barn. I’m done.”

“Works for me.” She puts her feet to work.

I bike faster to pass them. The heat feels oppressive, and all I want is water. Who would drink a beer after being this thirsty? My dry mouth itches, and my water reservoir is empty.

The following thirty miles, I hallucinate bodies of water off in the distance. I long to drive my bike into them and soak in the waves, but it’s just a mirage. Passing another mile marker, I imagine rain sprinkles across my arm, but it’s the sweat of a biker overtaking me. The sensation is almost refreshing.

Gross.

The sign indicating Hell’s Gate is five miles ahead encourages me to keep going. Maybe I’ll quit once I get to that race milestone. It’s at the sixty-mile mark, and everyone says the race gets harder after you pass through it. If I continue on, I’ll still have forty more miles to go while the sun roasts me into a burntjalapeño.

I imagine a cold shower, and then picture Gabe joining me, water dripping down his firm body. The things he could do to me in the shower. I shake my head to clear my dirty thoughts and pedal faster.

I finally reach Hell’s Gate, an elaborate arch over the road. I don’t take the time to study it. My focus stays on the water station ahead. I jump off my bike and contemplate overindulging in the tiny paper cups of water, but refill my reservoir instead. I’ve made it this far. Why not finish?

Atta girl.

Libby’s motivation is just what I need. I hop on my bike, refreshed, and ready to ride to the finish line.

As I merge onto the road, I catch a glimmer of a tall, muscular man in sunglasses dressed head to toe in pink. He stands behind a few onlookers, but I swear he looks like Mr. Fancy. Am I hallucinating again? The summer heat has officially boiled my brain.

Over several more miles, I find my stride. I blow past a man on the side of the road throwing up. His face burns bright with red streaks, and his bike lies on the ground. The intense heat is killing him. He peels off his shirt and throws his helmet in the bushes. He needs professional assistance.

“I’ll send help,” I yell as I ride past.

When I approach the first aid station, I call out that there’s a man a couple of miles behind me puking his guts out. They wave, and a medic jumps on a scooter.

My legs shake with the effort of pedaling. They resemble limp noodles from last night's pasta dinner, but the prospect of a cold shower motivates me forward.

I pretend the Gabe hallucination is real, and he came to cheer for me. I never should’ve left that stupid note. I imagine being his girlfriend and taking Lolly and Homer on walks together. My sides tense with emotion and tears threaten to break through.

Hold it together, Hannah. Remember, you’re a badass.

Almost there.

“Damn it, Libby,” I yell into the sky. I miss her so much. “I love you.”

Libby’s list changed my life. I have a book deal, and I’m a working artist. I glance at my powerful legs. I’m also in the best physical shape of my life. I feel invincible.

“Thank you, Libby,” I whisper.

A barely noticeable swipe of cool wind hits my face. The breeze isn’t strong, but fills me with extra energy. I doubt it’s a sign from Libby, but I pretend it is and keep pedaling.

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