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I shake my head, and he meets my eyes, silently chiding me.
“Keep it under fifty the first time,” he says. “I need to map it out.”
And with that, he presses a GoPro camera to the Velcro on the front of my (his) helmet.
“Look for the connecting stretches,” he instructs, “and throttle up.”
I nod, pulling the helmet over my head and fastening the strap under my chin.
“Elbows up, mind your weight…” he continues as I reach inside the face shield and adjust my earpiece. “And talk to yourself.” He grins at me. “No one can hear you.”
“You will,” I point out.
“And I’ll understand.”
Yeah. Normally, we wouldn’t have contact, and I could talk, sing, shout—do whatever—to push myself and keep my head zoned in on the track. It’s not something my dad did, but Noah does. He says when he thinks, he loses focus, and if he talks, he won’t think. I feel like that’s an indication of some deeper insight into his personality, but I can’t think about that now.
But one day, I took his advice about the talking, and I’ve been doing it ever since.
Finally, he lifts his gaze, meeting Farrow’s. “Anything to add?” he asks him.
“No,” he replies, the twitch of a smile on his lips. “Fifty sounds fine.”
I narrow my eyes just a hair. I don’t like how he said that.
Soft laughter resonates behind us.
Noah climbs on his bike, reaching behind him to take the spare helmet he has secured there. Fitting it onto his head, he starts his bike and crawls up to my side. He nods once, and I do too. His thumb comes up, and my thumb comes up. And then he raises his right hand just a little, counting off.
Three.
Two.
I press the button on my GoPro.
And one.
We’re off.
Noah lets me take the lead, and I rock side to side, swerving around theRoad Closedsign before speeding ahead. Leaning into the wind, I scan the road, seeing cracks and potholes, and I curve quickly, avoiding them. My heart pumps hard because I don’t know what’s coming.
Coasting down the abandoned road, I dip and then hear the engine whir louder as the bike launches up a hill, the climb of Phelan’s Throat beginning now.
I break fifty, pushing it a little harder to fifty-five. I glance behind me, Noah keeping up.
Trees create a cover around us, thick trunks fencing us in as the canopies shroud us from the sun. I kick it up to sixty.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I repeat.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” I hear him in my ear.
For what? A deer? That’s about the only danger I’m anticipating right now.
The path takes a sharp curve left, and I slow just enough to brush the ground with my foot before zooming off again. A pothole races toward me, and I swerve just in time.
“We’re not racing,” he reminds me.
I ignore him because he’s only saying it, so he can say that he said it, if I get hurt. Noah is like me. We don’t go slowly.
