“Everyone hates Porta Potties,” Abby said.
“No lies detected,” said Lizzie.
Abby nodded at the woman who’d looked relieved about the bridge news. She introduced herself as Lily Mackenzie, and said she was riding with her daughter, Morgan. Lily was petite, with bright blond hair, big, blue eyes, and long manicured fingernails. She wore black Lycra cycling shorts, but instead of a stretchy cycling jersey with pockets above the hips, she had on a long-sleeved tee shirt top. Abby also spotted a cross on a fine gold chain around her neck. Her daughter, Morgan, was taller than her mom, with shiny light-brown hair that, Abby guessed, uncharitably, had probably been her mother’s original color. Morgan wore biking shorts, with a baggy tee shirt that hung almost to their hem, and a necklace that matched her mother’s. A gold ring on her left ring finger caught Abby’s eye. Could the girl be married already? It didn’t seem possible. She was just a kid.
“There were supposed to be three of us, but now Morgan and I are doing a little mother-daughter bonding, while my husband’s leading a men’s retreat in Arizona.” Lily smiled at the group, and Morgan gave a little nod, licking her lips as her gaze slid toward the ground. The girl’s posture was almost furtive, shoulders hunched, with her left hand cupping her right elbow and her body leaning away from her mother. It was a pose Abby remembered well from her own teenage years.
“Welcome.” Abby hoped that the Spoke’n Four, with the KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF OUR BODIES bumper sticker visible on its RV, right beneath the Bernie Sanders sticker, would be able to play nicely with the Mackenzies, and resolved to keep the conversational topics confined to biking, the weather, and what everyone was watching on TV.
“I’m not really an experienced cyclist,” Lily was saying, “but I’ll do my best to keep up.” She looked at Morgan fondly. “I’m just happy to be spending time with my daughter.”
“No worries,” said Abby. Morgan, who appeared decidedly less thrilled, managed a wan smile as she shuffled farther away. “And that reminds me to remind all of you that this is a vacation, not a race. You’re not here to win a spot on the Olympic team or qualify for the Tour de France. Don’t worry about going as fast as you can. We want you to enjoy all the things being on a bike lets you see and hear…” （and smell, Abby thought, but didn’t say, as she recalled certain sewage plants she’d ridden by, during her cycling club’s annual New Hope–to–New York ride, which passed through some especially redolent sections of Elizabeth, New Jersey）。
Abby already knew that, in some cases—mostly male cases—her little speech would be ignored. Between the apps you could download to your phone and the devices you could clip to your handlebars, bikers had real-time access to reams of data: how long they’d ridden and how far they’d gone, average speed and cadence count and feet of elevation, how many miles they’d gone on a trip and how many miles were left and how fast they were going compared to previous rides on the same route, or compared to other riders that day, that month, or that year.
It was a challenge. No matter how much the ride leaders urged folks to unplug from their devices and enjoy the scenery, there’d inevitably be some data-drunk riders staring at their screens for the entire trip, focused solely on going as fast as they could… or, at least, faster than the guy riding beside them, or faster than they’d gone the day or week before. Abby knew that Breakaway’s founder, Marj, had played with the idea of flat-out forbidding the apps and computers, but that she’d eventually decided to let it be the riders’ choice. Probably she’d known how many cyclists wouldn’t even consider a trip from which they couldn’t return with souvenirs, memories, photographs, bragging rights, and lots of data, including the knowledge, down to the merest fraction of a mile, of how far they’d gone.
“So please—take your time, look around, enjoy the ride,” Abby continued. “There’s some beautiful things to see. And if you’ve had enough”—Abby made eye contact with Lily, then with each of the Spoke’n Four—“don’t feel like you need to push yourself. This is not a no-pain, no-gain kind of trip. You’re not getting any points for riding if it hurts. Just pull over and let me know, and if you don’t see me, call Jasper, and he’ll come and get you.”
Abby nodded at the middle-aged man who’d been expressionless as he listened to the introductions, with his shoulders hunched toward his ears, and arms crossed over his chest. He had close-cropped brown hair, white skin with a faint olive tinge and a thin-lipped frown that Abby guessed was his usual expression. The road bikes he and his wife were holding were good quality, but they had some nicks and scratches and were clearly not brand-new. Their two teenage boys had gravel bikes with knobby tires, the kind of sturdy, all-purpose, relatively inexpensive bikes you’d buy when your kids were still growing, and you didn’t want to drop thousands of dollars on new bicycles each year.