The Breakaway(10)
Abby slumped against the restaurant’s brick wall. “No. Not now, and not ever.”
“Stop that,” Lizzie said sharply. “You can have your existential crisis later. Right now, just tell me if you can do this or not.”
“How many people have you and Marj already tried?”
“Not important,” said Lizzie. Translation: lots.
Abby considered. Riding her bike was her favorite thing in the world. It had been, ever since she was a girl… and she loved bike trips. She was rarely happier than when she got to load her gear and her clothes into panniers and head out for an all-day, sixty-or seventy-mile ride, on paved rail-to-trail pathways, or packed dirt towpaths or back roads or on the wide shoulders of busy city streets, alone or with a friend or with a group. She loved how it felt when she was starting out, when the sun was just coming up and the streets were quiet and it felt like she had the whole world to herself. She loved how it felt when the ride was over, and she’d climb off her bike, take a long, hot shower, rinse the road grit and sunscreen off her arms and legs and scrub away the grease that her chain left on the inside of her right calf as the aches in her legs and in the small of her back faded. She loved the first sip of beer, the first bite of pizza, after a long day in the saddle, and the feeling of climbing into her sleeping bag in her tent or tucking herself under the covers in a hotel room and falling into sound, dreamless sleep.
Even though she’d never led a trip, Abby knew that she was at least somewhat qualified. She’d been through her club’s ride-leader training, and she’d taken a class at her local bike shop, where she’d learned basic safety and repairs and first aid.
Abby looked through the restaurant’s windows. She could see Mark, at their table, looking at his phone, smiling at the server as she refilled Abby’s water. “How many people did you say?” she heard herself asking.
“If you want to swing by tomorrow, I can give you all the details. This would be, like, an all-time good deed. You’ll have a star in your crown in heaven, as my sainted mother would say.”
Abby looked at her boyfriend. She considered that prickle of unease, the dark, doubting thoughts slithering through her head. She thought about how leading a ride through upstate New York for two weeks would keep her from having to make a choice; how the trip would buy her a little time. She’d be able to think, figure out what was wrong—or, better yet, convince herself that nothing was wrong. Nobody got the total package, and if Mark was 99 percent of what she wanted, how foolish and selfish would she have to be to hold out for more?
“Tell you what,” Abby said to Lizzie. “How about I swing by your place after dinner?”
* * *
Abby had lived next to Mr. and Mrs. Mathers for her entire life, but it wasn’t until she was eight years old that she finally met their grown-up daughter, Lizzie, who lived on a houseboat in Portland, Oregon. After Mr. Mathers died, Lizzie had come back east to clear out their house and put it on the market and move her mother into assisted living. Once the house had sold, Lizzie had returned to Portland. Fifteen years later, after Sally Mathers had succumbed to a combination of dementia and heart disease, Lizzie had come back east. She’d used the inheritance her mother had left her to augment her savings and purchase a tiny three-story trinity-style rowhouse in Queen Village, a neighborhood adjacent to Bella Vista, where Abby lived. That had been her home base for the last ten years.
Abby loved Lizzie’s house. Trinities, as the name suggests, are three stories—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—and classic trinities had just one room per story, with the kitchen traditionally in the basement. Lizzie’s trinity had been constructed in the early 1800s but had been enlarged and renovated since then. Her basement level now held an office-slash-guest room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three of its four walls. Each shelf was filled with books and framed photographs and souvenirs from Lizzie’s travels. There was a bedroom, a dressing room, and a full bath on the trinity’s top floor. The living room and kitchen, as well as a tiny powder room tucked underneath the staircase, were on the ground floor. Lizzie’s sleek road bike, with aero tubes and disc brakes and glossy red paint on its carbon-fiber frame, hung on the wall by the door. The bike was a work of art, gorgeous and aerodynamic, light enough to lift with a single finger. Lizzie had bought it as a reward for herself, after her last round of radiation.
“So it’s twelve days of riding with two days off,” Lizzie said. She and Abby were sitting on her couch, with Lizzie’s dog, Grover, an irascible and elderly gray schnauzer, curled between them. Lizzie had her laptop open in her lap, and was reading the itinerary off the screen. “?‘Welcome to Breakaway Bicycle Tours, where adventure awaits; possibilities unfold with every turn of the wheel, and there’s something new to see around every bend in the road!’?”
Abby rolled her eyes. Lizzie smirked and kept reading.
“?‘Your journey through the small towns and wide-open spaces of Upstate New York follows the recently opened Empire State Trail, which, at seven hundred and fifty miles, is the longest multiuse trail in the country. The trail combines existing rail-trails and runs from New York City north to the Canadian border, and west from Albany to Buffalo. You’ll ride on paved trail, crushed cinders, and you’ll occasionally share roads with cars, as you travel from Battery Park in Lower Manhattan to Buffalo, then west to Niagara Falls. On average, mileage will range between fifty to seventy miles a day. A sag wagon will transport your luggage—and you, if you’ve had enough! A ride leader will keep you on course, and a mechanic will be on hand to keep you rolling. Breakfasts and lunches are included, as are lodgings in hotels or bed-and-breakfasts. We’ll eat dinner as a group, but riders are always free to make their own arrangements or explore on their own. This is the perfect trip for couples, families, or first-time cycling tourists.’?” Abby listened as Lizzie read through the two-week-long itinerary: “?‘New York City to Mount Kisco, Mount Kisco to Poughkeepsie, Poughkeepsie to Hudson, Hudson to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Utica, Utica to Syracuse, Syracuse to Seneca Falls—you get a rest day there—and then Seneca Falls to Rochester, Rochester to Medina, Medina to Buffalo, and another day off in Niagara Falls.’?”