“I don’t want to be here,” whispered Hannah.
“I know,” Abby whispered back.
“People are going to laugh at me,” Hannah said. Unlike the other girls, who’d worn shorts and tee shirts, Hannah wore baggy sweatpants and a loose sweatshirt. It was a warm day, and Hannah looked sweaty and miserable as she stared at her feet.
“I’m not going to laugh at you,” Abby said.
“Everyone’s going to be faster than me,” she said.
“Good thing this isn’t a race,” said Abby. Hannah didn’t smile. “I will ride with you,” Abby promised. “We’ll take it slow. Just give it a try, okay? Maybe you’ll have fun.”
The first ride was the eight-mile loop down Kelly Drive, then back up Martin Luther King Drive. Abby told the girls to ride single file, to pay attention, to call out “On your left!” when passing walkers or runners. It took them almost an hour. After the first mile, Hannah complained that her legs hurt. After the second mile, she announced that her butt hurt. By the third mile, she said that everything hurt. “Just keep pedaling,” Abby said. She rode beside Hannah and, eventually, they were back where they’d started: Sally wiping off her sweaty face, Madisyn and Ryleigh arguing about who’d gone faster. Connie was beaming, and Hannah, in spite of her aching legs and sore bottom, was quietly glowing with pride.
Every Saturday, Abby led her riders on different loops through the park, past the Please Touch Museum and the Japanese Tea House and the Belmont Plateau. Once a month, when the ride was over, they’d go to a coffee shop and listen to a guest speaker, typically one of Abby’s friends, or a friend of a friend: a psychologist who talked about self-esteem, a nutritionist who talked about eating to be healthy and strong, a teacher who discussed note-taking strategies and good study habits. Abby thought about what she wished she’d known, or been told, when she was their age, and tried to find people who could fill in those blanks. Even though she knew some of the girls were facing challenges she couldn’t imagine, she knew, or at least hoped, that riding a bike would give them some respite, and the speakers would give them some knowledge, and those things, combined, would give them some strength.
Eileen had sent her, without comment, Sebastian’s article about the Empire State Trail ride when it had been published, three weeks after the trip had ended. Abby had held her breath, imagining the worst, but the story was a straightforward travelogue about the trail, the riding conditions, the different trips you could take and the different outfitters that led them. The photographs were all shots of Lincoln or Sebastian on the trail, and what looked like handout art from the New York State tourism board. There was a single mention of Breakaway, and no mention at all of Abby. She’d thought about writing to him, to tell him she’d enjoyed the story, but decided not to. He had her number. If he wanted to get in touch, he could. But, as the months went on, he didn’t. Abby did her best to forget him and move on.
Then, one Sunday morning in August, almost a year after the last time she’d seen him, a story landed in her inbox. Lincoln had sent it. Thought you’d want to see this, he’d written. Hope you’re well. Abby had swallowed hard and clicked the link. The headline read THE BREAKAWAY, and the byline was Sebastian Piersall.
Abby sank down in her office chair and began to read.
The best trips can change you. You start off in one place, as one version of yourself, and you end up, days or weeks or months or even years later, not just having been somewhere else, but, maybe, having become someone else. Hopefully someone better. You’ve been new places, you’ve seen new things, you’ve faced challenges and overcome them. All of that, ideally, leaves you new and improved… or, if not completely new, at least somewhat improved.
That’s how it went for me.
Last August, at the end of the summer, I rode my bike from Midtown Manhattan to the Canadian border. I wrote about the route, the scenery, the history of the Empire State Trail, the various outfitters that run trips and the small towns and big cities you’ll see along the way.
What I didn’t mention in that story was that I started off the ride in disgrace; in the midst of a public shaming that commenced the second day of my ride.
All through my twenties, and into my thirties, I’d been active on the dating apps, meeting different women every weekend. I didn’t see the harm in it—I was having a good time. Then one of my dates got together with her friends, and seven out of eight of them realized they’d spent time with me （you can insert your own air quotes around “meeting” and “spent time with me”）。 Cue the social media mob. For a few days back then, I was the Internet’s main character. I trended on Twitter; I made a few late-night-comedians’ monologues. I was a cautionary tale; a target; a punch line in padded shorts.