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Fast is the whole point.
We wind around bends, the road ahead opening up, and I lay on the gas, racing hard. I jerk the handlebars left and right, maneuvering around holes and pieces of broken road, feeling my heart leap into my throat, because the obstacles come so fast. I twist the bike right, almostspilling over, and I let out a laugh as the excitement rushes to my head. I drop my foot, catching myself, and then give it some more speed, barreling ahead.
I race, the wind flying at me, the cool air drifting up the gap in the helmet just above my neck, and I can smell the bark on the trees.
Faster.
But as the road whips by underneath me, climbing, climbing, climbing, something glints in the sunlight on the old pavement.
I keep glancing down, seeing it again.
And again.
Something copper-colored.
My face falls, déjà vu hitting me.Pennies.
There are pennies on the road.
I let off the gas, realizing too late when Noah flies by.
Oh, no.
“Noah, stop!” I shout, but I forgot about my visor. I slide it up. “Noah!” I scream again.
He revs up the hill, but then, his tires leave the ground, his bike soars through the air, and I gasp as he plummets back to the earth, his body leaving the bike just as he disappears.
“Noah!” I cry.
I ride to the top of the hill, keeping my speed low, because I have no idea what’s on the other side. I stop, seeing Noah splayed on the downslope, his head lolling back and forth. His bike lays twenty yards farther, on its side. I drive down to him, parking my bike on the side of the road, and jump off. I run over, ripping off my helmet and dropping it to the ground.
He grunts, one knee bent as he pulls off his helmet and drops his head back to the ground.
“And that’s…” He breathes heavy. “Why you walk the track first.”
I do a once-over, inventorying the scuff marks on his elbows and underneath his shoulders. I don’t see any blood, but he’s going to have a hard time sitting tonight.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
But just as he starts to answer, bike engines roar, flying closer and closer until all of a sudden, one, two, three, four, five, and six come skidding over the hill. Noah turns his head with me, and it all happens in slow motion, Farrow and the guys skidding out and then leaning to the right, almost laying on their goddamn sides, but never quite touching the ground as they drift around the immediate turn that happens right over the hill.
One by one, they all tilt back upright, not one of them a seasoned racer like Noah Van der Berg, but not a single one of them falling, either.
And that’s when I finally get the name.Phelan’s Throat.It’s what my dad keeps trying to pound into me. Racing isn’t about speed.
It’s science. You can’t beat Phelan’s Throat with guts. There’s a method to letting it swallow you down.
They all slow to a stop and turn around, heading back up to us.
“Don’t tell your dad about this,” Noah whispers as if they can hear over their engines. “He’ll tell mine.”
I laugh a little. I’ve never met Jake Van der Berg, but Noah avoids him like I avoid homework.
In a moment, the guys are strolling up to us.
“You little shit,” Noah says, glowering. “You could’ve warned us.”
Farrow just smiles, looking smug. “Who am I to teach Noah Van der Berg and the daughter of Jared Trent anything?”
