Page 28 of Dear Pink

“You can train by yourself, I guess, but who would want to? You’ll appreciate the support, people cheering you on and keeping you motivated.”

She’s probably right. I’m already contemplating backing out of this store and this race. Libby, be damned.

Excuse me? I will haunt your lazy ass. I shudder at her voice in my ear.

Fine. I’ll buy a bike and join a group.

“Anything cheap in this store?”

Meg hops on a step stool and unhooks a powder blue bike off the wall. “Cheap, no, but a decent price, yes. This is a Trek. A fine beginner bike.”

I look at the $900 price tag and wince. So much money for an item I’ll dump in my garage next to my old bike. I stroke the smooth aluminum frame. It’s shiny, but something feels off. I frown.

“You don’t dig it?”

Forget the old Huffy.Libby’s voice demands.

How can I forget my Huffy?

“My bike was pink,” I say. “I guess I'm a little sentimental over the loss of it.”

“You want pink?” Meg brightens and ducks behind a sheer curtain. She reappears with a hot pink Trek, the color of bubble gum. The neon pink rims glow and the bright white racing stripes on the seat enhance the frame.

I hug the bike like a new best friend. Meg smiles at me. She must have a best friend bike at home too.

“Long-distance riding requires special gear to train properly. You don’t want to chafe.” She walks over to the women’s section of the store. I follow, scanning the store for a discount rack when she finds a purple racing jersey with white and purple striped shorts. “What about these?”

Don’t get me wrong, purple’s okay, but the white butt of the shorts scream, “Mistake.”

“Um...maybe something less white,” I say.

Meg turns the shorts around and laughs. “Yeah, white might show poop stains.”

Poop stains? What? Is “poop” the biker term for “dirt”? I’m about to ask when she waves a cotton candy pink jersey and matching shorts in my direction.

“These match your bike.”

I squeal with delight and cover my mouth. “They’re perfect.”

Meg grabs a pink helmet with white decals. “Now, it’s perfect. You’ll be Barbie Dream House ready in these.” Is she making fun of me? I examine her expression, but she’s all smiles like a proud mom. I smile too.

I check out in a blur of pink ecstasy, but before I walk out the door, a flyer catches my eye.

The Hell Raisers is a women's training group for the Hotter’N Hell. We meet at the spillway every Saturday at 6 a.m. Come ride with us.

I giggle, confident Libby’s behind this stellar day. “Yes, Hell Raisers, I’ll be there.”

***

The following Saturday, I roll my new bike out of the garage and pop my trunk. I push down the seats and shove my bike inside. Nope. Bollocks. How do people get their bikes to the lake?

I squint at my phone and Google, “How to transport a bike.” Oh, yeah, a bike rack. Shit. I should have bought one. I Google, “How to transport a bike without a bike rack.” Google says, “Not advisable. You must remove the wheel to fit in most trunks.” Ugh.

I click on YouTube and type, “How to remove a bike wheel?” YouTube gives me thousands of videos. After twenty minutes of searching for my Trek model, I locate the correct video. YouTube says the task is easy if you have a quick-release lever. Thank god, I do. I get the wheel off and the bike fits in the trunk. I finish watching the video on reattaching the wheel. “Danger. Ensure your wheel’s attached before riding or it may result in a horrible accident,” the stern man tells me. I rewind, making sure I heard him. “. . . horrible accident.” Yeah, no pressure, YouTube. So, if I don’t re-attach the wheel the correct way, I’ll end up in the lake.

Finally ready, I drive to the spillway and park in the lot. The bright blue light on my dash reads 5:45, but I don’t recognize any women who could be the Hell Raisers. I step out of my car and a couple of bikers whiz past me. My shoulders sink. I don’t belong here. I stare at my outfit and self-consciously tug at my jersey. Do I look like the Pink Panther on a bike?

Too late now.

---