Abby loved her bike. More than that, she identified with it. Trek had been making the 520 model since 1983, longer than any other bike it manufactured. The bikes were legendary: steel framed, practically indestructible, stable and sturdy, with brazed-on attachments that let riders mount racks for panniers alongside the back and front wheels. Touring bikes had what was known as relaxed geometry, a longer frame that prioritized comfort and stability over speed. When they were parked next to road bikes, they looked massive; like hippos that had wandered into a pack of gazelles. They were not fast or flashy, but they were hard to damage, they could carry almost any load and manage almost every surface. They weren’t pretty, but they got the job done.
Abby’s 520, which was almost twenty years old （“practically vintage,” as Lizzie liked to say）， had navy-blue paint with gold accents. Over the years, Abby had added a kickstand, three cages for water bottles, a handlebar mount for her iPhone, a floodlight for riding at night, and a bell in a case that looked like a rolling eyeball and made a pleasant but appropriately loud ding when she thumbed its lever. She had cushy handlebar tape, a back rack and front racks for panniers. Up front, her capacious Ortlieb handlebar bag was loaded with everything she might possibly need: a multitool, a flat-tire repair kit, her own extra tube, an extra battery for her phone, a first aid kit, a hand towel, emergency snacks.
“I’ll be riding sweep, which means I’ll be bringing up the rear,” she told the group. Don’t look don’t look don’t look, Abby thought, but she couldn’t help her gaze from slipping to the Bros. She looked away before Sebastian could make eye contact, trying not to wonder what he was thinking. She still couldn’t quite believe he’d remembered her name. “You should all have Jasper’s number in your phone. Any kind of trouble—wrong turn, flat tire, existential malaise—pull off to the side and wait for me. If you don’t see me, call him. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Okay!” Abby said. “Real quick, before we go. Does everyone have a spare tube, in case of flats? How about tire irons? You should have at least three.” Abby made her way from rider to rider. Everyone was good, except the Bros, who had two tire irons and a single tube between them.
“Let me grab you another tube,” Abby said.
“We’ll be fine,” said Sebastian. Abby allowed herself another look at his broad, high cheekbones, a widow’s peak, and coppery highlights in that on-purpose-swoopy brown hair.
“Do you know how to change a flat?” Abby asked him.
Sebastian looked amused. “Yes, Abby, I know how to change a flat.”
Abby opened her mouth. To say what, she wasn’t sure—Good for you, or Glad to hear it, or, I remember you were good with your hands, or even, Please don’t say my name like that, I can’t stand it—when someone called, “Abby!”
She turned and saw a petite middle-aged woman with a let-me-speak-to-the-manager haircut wheeling a brand-new bike toward the group. “Hi, honey. Sorry I’m late.”
And Abby Stern, who’d just been thinking that things were already awkward, stared at Eileen Stern Fenske, her mother, and realized that the Universe could always find a way to make them worse.
* * *
After she’d gotten the riders onto the path and heading in the right direction; after she’d checked in on every single one of them as they pedaled the first miles, when she couldn’t avoid it any longer, Abby slowed down and waited for her mom to catch up.
“Mother,” Abby said, matching pedal strokes with Eileen until their bikes were side by side, waiting to see if her mother would explain herself. After a few minutes, it was clear that Eileen would not, so Abby made herself ask. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m spending time with my daughter,” Eileen said, her voice calm, her face serene. Although maybe that was the fillers, Abby thought. Maybe it was no longer physically possible for her mother to look irritated, or tired, or pissed, or anything other than pleasant. “I’m a delightful surprise,” Eileen said airily.
“Well, you’re definitely a surprise,” Abby muttered.
“I heard that,” said Eileen, still unruffled. “It’s fine. We’re going to have fun! I’ll get to see you in your element!”
Abby examined the remark from all angles, looking for implied criticism, then shook her head. Be the bigger person, she told herself. No pun intended. Maybe Eileen was being sincere; making a real （although belated） effort to get to know her daughter on Abby’s turf and Abby’s terms. She’d purchased a nonstationary bike, and the right clothes: terry cycling shorts, a hot-pink sleeveless jersey with three stretchy pockets in the back, padded gloves, and clip-in cycling shoes.