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Griffith’s appreciative look would have warmed her cheeks, but they were maximally flushed from her exertions.
She clenched her teeth, wheeled the Rover about, and swung her leg over the top bar. It curved down on this model—a drop frame, Griffith had called it. Designed for ladies.
“Ready to go again?” Griffith strode over. He stood very close, bracing the bicycle as she arranged her skirts and adjusted her grip on the handlebars.
As she revolved the pedals, he kept hold, moving with her.
“That’s it,” he said. “Eyes straight ahead.”
The husky command made her want to look in his direction, and when he let her go, she was listing toward him, just slightly. In an attempt to restore equilibrium, she turned the wheel away from the approaching ground, which decision narrowed the distance all at once.
“Ahh!” she yelped as her elbow exploded with pain. She lay on her side, head ringing. Grass prickled her skin, and the warm scent of torn summer earth filled her nostrils. At least she wasn’t learning on macadamized highway, or a graveled lane, or a cobbled street.
God, this tour would hurt.
James shouted, “Is it time for the sticking plaster?”
She rolled onto her back and blinked at the sky. Griffith’s face appeared above her.
“You’re doing quite well,” he said.
She wiggled, resisting the urge to kick the Rover as she extracted herself.
“Mounting, balancing, pedaling, steering, dismounting.” She pushed herself to sitting. “That’s it? Five elements to master?”
Breaking it down thus made the task seem more manageable.
Griffith squatted, forearms on his knees. “Those are the basics.”
“There are more,” she said grimly.
“A few nuances. It takes a bit of skill, and strength, to manage momentum up and down hills. And the machine itself responds differently on different road surfaces. There’s a trick to—” He must have realized his words were producing a decidedly negative effect. He smiled. “Not to worry. It will all be second nature before you know it.”
She smiled too, a crazed smile.
Today was Friday. The Mutton Wheelers departed on Tuesday. At this rate, Griffith would have to run beside her, propping her Rover the whole way.
He rose and extended a hand. She clasped it. His strong grip made her knees feel weaker. She was upright in an instant but wobbling like a bloody bicycle.
“I have an idea,” said James, musingly, leaning forward in his chair. “Muriel, what if you thought of the handlebars as bit and bridle?”
“You’re not helping,” she told him.
“Or named your bicycle, to establish a relationship?”
“Not. Helping.” She grated it.
“You’re the one who insisted that I come along,” he huffed.
“Not for the cycling pointers.”
He shrugged and plucked a book from his surgical bag. “I was going to suggest Cynisca, after the Spartan princess who won the Olympic chariot race.”
“Cynisca.” Muriel gave him a dubious look.
“I was feeling rather proud of it.” He balanced the book on his thigh and drummed his fingers on the cover. “Boudica.”
“I’m not calling my bicycle Boudica.”
