Another Barbie.
Chattering endlessly in an animated voice, she latches onto my rear wheel, figuring my slipstream is good for the last half dozen miles to the finish line. She thinks wrong.
Not today. Not when it’s someone who doesn’t offer so much as a polite “do you mind” to the guy she expects to pull her ass the rest of the way to Richmond. And, certainly not after I’ve finally smelled the corn.
There’s no lack of field corn to be found in the last legs of RAIN — the 160-mile, one-day, one-way Ride Across INdiana. But unseasonably cool temperatures serve as a cork to bottle up the sweet scent of that crop. It’s only on the final big hill of the day, a long but gradual climb that continues for two miles, does the smell of corn rise to reach the road. Liz and I are between Cambridge City and Centerville, maybe ten miles left in our day, when a northerly breeze picks up the aroma of a field on the other side of U.S. 40. I look at Liz, to see if she noticed, but her concentration remains on the road.
A few miles later our focus shifts to Barbie and her friend. It’s the third time today we’ve attracted guests. For nearly ten miles in the first quarter of the ride, Mr. Blue Jersey latches on. He never offers to pull. Never says a word. He just stays there — mile after mile — until inexplicably cutting around us in an acceleration we’re glad to not follow.
The next guy takes his turn behind me about halfway through the day, on the south side of Indianapolis. He’s probably in his 60s and looks spent, constantly falling off our pace and catching up again. The Older Guy yo-yos, but manages to keep contact for a considerable distance until he fades away for good after a stoplight. I look for him, wanting to lend a silent hand, but he never catches up.
And then there’s Barbie. I figure she’s jabbering away incessantly because she’s done minimal work all day, finding other riders to help her across the state. She’s in sharp contrast to the German rider who passes us about that same time, his voice as thick with encouragement as it is with accent. “You guys are doing good,” he says to Liz and me.
There are other words I’m hearing.
My mind is clearer now.
At last all too well I can see where we all soon will be.
The lyrics from Jesus Christ Superstar inexplicably pound through my head as we pace up the final big hill and move on toward Richmond. The song is there when Barbie joins us. And, it continues when Liz has finally had enough, giving me a look before dashing around riders just ahead, our tempo leaving Barbie to latch onto the rear wheel of someone we’ve just passed. I feel sorry for him.
It’s been a strange day in the saddle. There are the cool temperatures, the tag-along cyclists and the length of time it took for the scent of field corn to meet us. But it’s also something else. After four years, the newness of RAIN has worn off, replaced by a familiarity with not just the section of the course that’s home turf for us, but with the rest of the roads as well. Only the reroute into Greenfield surprises us.
And, maybe we’ve finally figured out how to do this ride, finding success with exceptional SAG support, two good friends who offer more than just iced Gatorade and a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich. More importantly, they provide a smile and an encouraging word.
That’s what Barbie is missing, despite her effervescence. There’s no common courtesy, only a sense of entitlement.
The stop lights favor us on the final push down A Street, and we’re once again picking up the pace on the city’s rolling hills as we close the distance to the last turn. Then we’re there, at the finish line. Again.
159.67 miles — RAIN (Ride Across INdiana)
She rides with the kitten in one hand, a fist full of tiger-striped fur, the tiny creature squirming and mewing in the most desperate of ways. For nearly two miles she clings to the cat, and the cat to her, past pastures and farmhouses, moving toward Spiceland and a decision about what to do with this unexpected find.
As if summer skipped past, a flat rock on a smooth lake, Indiana the place between points of contact.
The escape goes here, down a narrow, hilly road with a rough surface that slants through a woods. It’s a splash of pink in the ditch that causes me to pinwheel my bike and stop.
Voices in black paint