Page 27 of Dear Pink

“That was interesting,” Pink says, her smirk communicating either distaste or amusement. I can’t tell.

“I don’t really have a serious girlfriend,” I blurt out without thinking. I sound desperate.

“Okay.” Before I get her name, her number, or say thank you, she turns on her heels and is out the door. “See you around the lake,” she calls over her shoulder.

I stare at my reflection in the door as Pink jumps on the Trolley headed downtown. Crap. Why do I keep forgetting to ask her name? Why didn’t I ask her out? I’m an idiot.

“Move it,” Gloria says, struggling to come inside.

I move and sink into a waiting room chair.

“Do you know the woman in pink? Is she one of the yoga pants who wants to jump your bones?”

“I wish.”

Chapter 8 - Hannah

I made a terrible mistake stepping inside the bike shop. The store resembles a stop-over for theTour de France.The place crawls with men in colorful competitive jerseys in every international flag. I peer at the price tag of a similar jersey on the nearest rack and gasp.$145? I spent the same amount on a cashmere cardigan last Christmas. I turn over the tag on a pair of bike shorts.$80? If the bike clothes are this expensive, how much is the bike? Before I check, a lanky high school kid sneaks up behind me.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.”

Ma’am? What Ma’am does he know with pink hair? My retro yellow Converse high tops and a vintage denim miniskirt scream hip. Can’t he tell I’m a cool twenty-five-year-old?

“Ma’am, are you looking for something specific today?”

“Yes, a road bike for the Hotter'N Hell race.” I burst with pride, but he doesn’t flinch at the name. “The Hotter'N Hell,” I repeat and wait for his excited response.

His face stays neutral as he grabs a shiny silver bike off the wall. “You’ll want a Pinarello for any race.”

The price tag dangles off the handlebars.$8000? Is this a typo? That’s the price of a used car. I couldn’t get $5000 for my old Honda Civic.

He ignores the shock on my face. “You can’t go wrong with a Pinarello. Best bike in the business.”

“What’s the second-best bike?” He glares at me like I said something blasphemous.

“Jeremy, quit trying to sell everyone a Pinarello.” A short, tattooed woman with a rainbow mohawk and red patent leather Doc Martens strides over. She grabs the bike from the kid and returns it to the wall. “I got it from here, Jere.” The kid stalks off in a pout.

“Thank you, but I’m out of my league here,” I say.

“Please excuse Jeremy. He’s a bike snob. I’m Meg,” she says, shaking my hand in a tight grip. “What kind of bike are you looking for?”

“One that’s a tenth of the cost of the Piccolo.”

The woman laughs. “Pinarello, you mean.”

I blush. “I know nothing about bikes. I rode my Huffy up Flag Pole Hill and rolled backward. A fancy guy caught me. He probably rode a Piccolo.”

“The Pin-ar-ello,” she says, pronouncing the name for me, “is a great bike for a professional, but I take it you’re a beginner?”

“Definitely. I entered the Hotter'N Hell competition, and my Huffy can’t hack it.”

“Impressive race for a newbie.”

Thank goodness, someone who appreciates the magnitude of this race. “Yes, well, I still need to train, but to make the full 100 miles, a sturdy bike is key.”

“Training is a must. Did you join a bike group yet?”

“A bike group?” It’s embarrassing enough that Mr. Fancy witnessed my epic failure. Now, I have to subject an entire group to my future failings?

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