“Okay,” she said. “Was everyone able to download the route, or grab a printed cue sheet?”
The moms and dads consulted their phones. The teenagers consulted their parents. The men of the Spoke’n Four fiddled with their cycling computers, while the woman who was either Lou or Sue (Abby had already forgotten which couple was tall and which was short) unfolded one of the cue sheets that Abby had printed. Morgan Mackenzie stood behind her mom, an icy oasis of teenage silence. Ezra Presser was being lectured by his mother—“No, you can’t just follow me. You need to learn to read a map. It’s an important life skill!” Abby heard Kayla say. Andy Presser, meanwhile, had sidled even closer to Morgan.
Abby walked to her own bike, the Trek touring bike that she’d bought secondhand for three hundred dollars of babysitting money and bat mitzvah gift cash when she was sixteen. She’d purchased it in advance of the first trip she’d ever taken, a five-day ride on Cape Cod with Lizzie. They’d packed tents and sleeping bags and ground cloths, and they’d spent two nights in Nickerson State Park in Brewster, one night in a hostel by the ocean in a town called Truro. For their final night, they’d slept on Race Point Beach in Provincetown. The sunset had been spectacular, and when they’d woken up in the morning they’d seen minke whales, mothers and calves, frolicking close to the shore.
Abby loved her bike. More than that, she identified with it. Trek had been making the 520 model since 1983, longer than any other bike it manufactured. The bikes were legendary: steel framed, practically indestructible, stable and sturdy, with brazed-on attachments that let riders mount racks for panniers alongside the back and front wheels. Touring bikes had what was known as relaxed geometry, a longer frame that prioritized comfort and stability over speed. When they were parked next to road bikes, they looked massive; like hippos that had wandered into a pack of gazelles. They were not fast or flashy, but they were hard to damage, they could carry almost any load and manage almost every surface. They weren’t pretty, but they got the job done.
Abby’s 520, which was almost twenty years old (“practically vintage,” as Lizzie liked to say), had navy-blue paint with gold accents. Over the years, Abby had added a kickstand, three cages for water bottles, a handlebar mount for her iPhone, a floodlight for riding at night, and a bell in a case that looked like a rolling eyeball and made a pleasant but appropriately loud ding when she thumbed its lever. She had cushy handlebar tape, a back rack and front racks for panniers. Up front, her capacious Ortlieb handlebar bag was loaded with everything she might possibly need: a multitool, a flat-tire repair kit, her own extra tube, an extra battery for her phone, a first aid kit, a hand towel, emergency snacks.
“I’ll be riding sweep, which means I’ll be bringing up the rear,” she told the group. Don’t look don’t look don’t look, Abby thought, but she couldn’t help her gaze from slipping to the Bros. She looked away before Sebastian could make eye contact, trying not to wonder what he was thinking. She still couldn’t quite believe he’d remembered her name. “You should all have Jasper’s number in your phone. Any kind of trouble—wrong turn, flat tire, existential malaise—pull off to the side and wait for me. If you don’t see me, call him. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Okay!” Abby said. “Real quick, before we go. Does everyone have a spare tube, in case of flats? How about tire irons? You should have at least three.” Abby made her way from rider to rider. Everyone was good, except the Bros, who had two tire irons and a single tube between them.
“Let me grab you another tube,” Abby said.
“We’ll be fine,” said Sebastian. Abby allowed herself another look at his broad, high cheekbones, a widow’s peak, and coppery highlights in that on-purpose-swoopy brown hair.
“Do you know how to change a flat?” Abby asked him.
Sebastian looked amused. “Yes, Abby, I know how to change a flat.”
Abby opened her mouth. To say what, she wasn’t sure—Good for you, or Glad to hear it, or, I remember you were good with your hands, or even, Please don’t say my name like that, I can’t stand it—when someone called, “Abby!”
She turned and saw a petite middle-aged woman with a let-me-speak-to-the-manager haircut wheeling a brand-new bike toward the group. “Hi, honey. Sorry I’m late.”
And Abby Stern, who’d just been thinking that things were already awkward, stared at Eileen Stern Fenske, her mother, and realized that the Universe could always find a way to make them worse.
* * *
After she’d gotten the riders onto the path and heading in the right direction; after she’d checked in on every single one of them as they pedaled the first miles, when she couldn’t avoid it any longer, Abby slowed down and waited for her mom to catch up.
“Mother,” Abby said, matching pedal strokes with Eileen until their bikes were side by side, waiting to see if her mother would explain herself. After a few minutes, it was clear that Eileen would not, so Abby made herself ask. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m spending time with my daughter,” Eileen said, her voice calm, her face serene. Although maybe that was the fillers, Abby thought. Maybe it was no longer physically possible for her mother to look irritated, or tired, or pissed, or anything other than pleasant. “I’m a delightful surprise,” Eileen said airily.
“Well, you’re definitely a surprise,” Abby muttered.
“I heard that,” said Eileen, still unruffled. “It’s fine. We’re going to have fun! I’ll get to see you in your element!”
Abby examined the remark from all angles, looking for implied criticism, then shook her head. Be the bigger person, she told herself. No pun intended. Maybe Eileen was being sincere; making a real (although belated) effort to get to know her daughter on Abby’s turf and Abby’s terms. She’d purchased a nonstationary bike, and the right clothes: terry cycling shorts, a hot-pink sleeveless jersey with three stretchy pockets in the back, padded gloves, and clip-in cycling shoes.
“Lizzie took me shopping,” she said, to Abby’s unasked question. So Lizzie was in on this, too? Abby made a mental note to have a full and frank conversation with her best friend at the earliest opportunity. “Don’t be mad at her. I swore her to secrecy,” Eileen continued. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“And you certainly have.” Eileen was trying, she thought again. True, Eileen’s hair was probably freshly blown out beneath the helmet, and yes, she was wearing a full face of makeup, and she’d clearly found time to have her legs waxed and her nails done, but she was here. On a bike. On the road. With Abby.
Which didn’t mean that Eileen was prepared for what was coming.
“Have you done any training, at all?” Abby asked her mother. “When was the last time you were on a bike?” Eileen opened her mouth. “An actual bike. Not a Peloton,” Abby said. Eileen shut her mouth and sniffed, looking affronted.
“I do the hour-long rides three days a week,” said Eileen. “The advanced ones. It’s not nothing.”
“No, but it’s not the same as riding a bike outside,” Abby said. “Where your bike’s actually moving, and you have to balance, and there’s bumps, and potholes, and dirt paths, and other people—”
“I’ll be fine,” Eileen said, nimbly steering around a bike messenger with a giant padded backpack to prove it. “You know what they say. It’s just like riding a bike.” She pointed her chin toward Lily Mackenzie, who was wobbling along ten yards in front of them. “I’m already doing better than she is.”
“Mom—” At least I came by my propensity for judgment honestly, Abby thought.
“I’m not here to cause you any trouble,” Eileen said. “I just thought it would be nice for us to be together.”
“Why?” Abby blurted.