At first, a dozen times an hour, a hundred times a day, she’d think about Sebastian. There would be things she’d want to tell him, or show him, or ask him. Abby was forced to admit, unhappily, that she’d let herself imagine things with him that she’d never imagined with Mark, not just this restaurant or that museum but a whole life. Days spent together. Long walks and picnics, movie dates and concerts, and drinks at her favorite bars and dinners at her favorite restaurants. Nights in bed, at her place or his.
She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about him, but she didn’t let herself call or text. For the first month, she crossed each day off her calendar, getting through them hour by hour, sometimes minute to minute. She started a gratitude journal and a skin-care routine, and was reminded that trying not to think about someone meant that, inevitably, you ended up thinking about him, even when you were making your absolute best effort to forget about the time he’d held your hand with rain-chilled fingers, or kissed you in front of a statue of Susan B. Anthony, or told you you were beautiful.
Fall became winter. Abby had written up a proposal for a bike club and submitted it, along with a résumé and references, to a friend of Lizzie’s who worked as a guidance counselor at one of the private Quaker schools in the city. After a background check, the school’s headmaster had agreed to give Abby a tryout, and, on a cold Monday in January, the first day after winter break, she’d met with the four kids who’d shown up at the fountain behind the Art Museum. Two of them had hybrid bikes, one had a road bike, and the fourth had a three-speed so small that her knees almost bumped her chin when she pedaled. Abby walked them all to the nearest bikeshare kiosk, so the girl could rent something more size-appropriate, and then she’d had them all pedal in circles around the fountain, making sure they could ride safely before leading them in an eight-mile loop, out Kelly Drive, over the Falls Bridge, and along the freshly paved trail on the other side of the river.
She went to other schools with her bike club proposal, and eventually she was running a different club each day Monday through Friday, working with two private schools and three public ones. The public schools paid her a pittance. The private schools paid a slightly more generous pittance. Abby didn’t mind. She had work that satisfied her and utilized her skills, and that felt more important than making a fortune. As long as she could pay her rent and her health insurance, she’d be fine.
On weekends, she volunteered with Neighborhood Bike Works in West Philadelphia. She taught kids how to fix bikes and how to ride them, and led them on adventures through Fairmount Park, into Manayunk, on out-and-backs along Forbidden Drive. Once she’d done that for six months, she’d launched the club she called Girls Ride Philly: a free club that would teach any girl who wanted to learn how to ride a bike （and help her find one if she didn’t have one already）， and offer workshops from local experts on nutrition, study habits, conflict resolution, and self-esteem. We’ll end our season in August with a thirty-mile bike-packing trip, Abby had written. Join us, and see how far you can go!
On the first ride for Girls Ride Philly, on the first Saturday in May, five girls showed up: shy Connie, with her long, dark ponytail, who looked a lot younger than twelve, and thirteen-year-old Sally, were classmates in West Philadelphia. Madisyn, twelve, and Ryleigh, fourteen, were sisters. Ryleigh had an ancient ten-speed, and Madisyn had borrowed a cousin’s BMX bike. Hannah, the fifth girl, lived in Queen Village, and reminded Abby of herself. She had shoulder-length curls, a sarcastic sense of humor, and, she quickly made clear, zero interest in exercise. “My parents made me do this,” Abby overheard her saying.
“Hello, ladies. My name is Abby, and I’m going to be riding with you.” The girls were sitting on benches beneath an arbor in the Azalea Gardens. Abby was standing in front of them, holding her bike with one hand, dry-mouthed, sweaty-palmed, feeling the worst imposter syndrome she’d experienced since she’d gotten up in front of the Breakaway riders for the first time and said she’d be their leader. “Let’s take a look at these bikes.”
Ryleigh’s chain was rusty. Sally’s rear tire was flat. Madisyn’s derailleur made an ominous clunking sound whenever she switched gears. And, when Abby asked, “Has everyone ridden a bike before?” Hannah’s nod did not look especially confident.
Abby squirted lubrication on Ryleigh’s rusty chain, used her multitool to raise Madisyn’s seat, pumped up Sally’s tire, crossed her fingers about the funky derailleur, and made sure everyone’s helmet was on correctly.