Shifting Gears

The familiar burn creeps into my quads but I keep pedaling. I shift gears on the uphill and glance over my shoulder, smirking as he noticeably slows in his pursuit. His on-road mountain bike is heavier steel or aluminum where mine is a carbon-framed beauty my parents bought me after my second mini-triathlon. When the road levels off again I stand straight-legged on one pedal and the other to stretch. This gives him just enough time to catch up so I sit and start pedaling again.

”Surrender?” I call over my shoulder.

“Never,” he pants and lurches forward with a burst of untapped energy that startles me.

I’m sure to keep just ahead of him though truthfully this isn’t even a challenge. I know I could go much faster and farther than this, but I want to let him think he stands a chance.

There was a time when this wouldn’t be the case, the opposite in fact. Seared into my memory are the countless times I chased him in fruitless pursuit, he and the other boys cackling ahead as I attempted to catch up on my banty-esque, pre-teen legs, and hand me down bike. If I couldn’t keep up I couldn’t hang out- because I was a girl- those were the rules. So, I learned to keep up; and then some. I never let on that my desperate need to fit in somewhere- anywhere- was an underlying reason for my foray into cycling and my parents never questioned it, just glad I was choosing an athletic pursuit period. Then a friend who ran track encouraged me to do a mini-triathlon with her and I was hooked.

I round the corner next to the park and immediately wish I’d gone a different way. The street is lined with cars of rec league soccer families blocking almost the entire bike lane. One oblivious dad flings open his door without looking so I check over my shoulder that it’s clear and shift into traffic to pass.

“Heads up,” I yell and he jumps but closes his door quickly in recognition; rare but appreciated.

I ride the white line, but as soon as he’s able T.J. moves back into the lane.

Sweat glistens between his helmet and eyebrows but he keeps both hands on the handlebars.

“Hey, Tommy!” a classmate yells across the street as we reach the corner and he sits up and waves. Everyone else calls him Tommy except for his mother, when he’s in trouble, who calls him Thomas, and only I know what the J stands for outside of his family. That feels like it means something and I hope it does.

I take this opportunity and surge ahead again on the downhill.

“Oh, crap,” he realizes and leans forward, pedaling fiercely to catch up. He does and passes me to my complete surprise. “See ya.” his smile is a straight, white blur in my peripheral vision until he turns his head again. I remember when that mouth was full of metal and bright-colored squares, red and green at Christmas and blue and orange for most of the rest of his sentence, as he called it. His oral incarceration was well worth it if you ask me, or any of the other girls in our class.

I grab a swig of water from my insulated bottle then turn on the gas. There’s always a time in my tris when I have to dig deep. The last three miles of the fifteen-mile ride is when my legs start to feel it but of course, there’s still the 5K run after that so I have to pace myself. But not now, not today. I jerk the bike forward and start pumping hard, building momentum for the uphill I know is coming. Sure enough, T.J. hits the incline and slows to a snail’s pace once his momentum runs out. I catch and pass him, keeping my pedaling steady in my second lowest gear. I debate waiting at the top of the hill but this is a race, after all, though it’s more of a chase which thrills me. All of my childhood I chased after him and now he’s chasing me, willingly.

He agreed to the ride and the race and there he is, still, pursuing me with determination.

It’s hard to know precisely when the shift occurred; when my feelings changed from familiar to fanciful, when he went from chum to charming, dude to dreamy. But they have and he has and that puts this bike race easily within the top five best moments of my life. I coast for a few seconds taking another drink, this time I don’t actually need it, making sure he clears the uphill and can see me taking a rest. The male ego is a fragile thing, and most guys don’t like it when you’re consistently better at something than they are. I learned that the hard way.

“Tired?” he passes me again with another smile.

I pretend to be surprised and quickly cradle the bottle to catch up; it doesn’t take long. I keep pace next to him and wipe my brow, unnecessary since I’m wearing a sweatband beneath my helmet but it makes him smile. I catch him scoping my legs in my peripheral vision and it makes me blush. I pull ahead again so he won’t see it.

“Seriously,” he grumbles and I just hear it. “How are you not tired?” he calls after me.

“Who says I’m not?” I throw over my shoulder. “But it’s called a race for a reason.” I round another corner and am grateful to see the finish line, the corner gas station which thankfully isn’t busy at the moment. I swerve left to miss a mom in a minivan backing down her driveway and stare back to make sure she doesn’t hit T.J. either. I wait for him to reach my side and smile. “Give up?” I nod ahead of us.

“No way,” he takes off again.

I’ve got to give him credit, he does actually make it hard for me at the end but I know I can beat him. I debate it for two seconds then pull ahead and win by one tire’s length. I unclip my shoes and hop off, bending to touch my toes stretching my hamstrings.

“Nice job,” he says above me and I realize he’s watching.

I straighten. “Thanks, you almost had me,” I smile then look away to my left.

He decides to believe me. “Yeah. I’ll get you next time.”

“So, what's my prize? Medal? Trophy? Podium kiss,” I sneak in my secret desire and watch his face freeze momentarily. “Cash prize?” I rub my thumb and fingers together wiggling my eyebrows which gets him to laugh; he has the best laugh, bubbly and warm like chocolate fondue that drops into my stomach and makes my heart rate spike in a similar way.

“How 'bout a soda?” he offers, nodding to the mini-market.

"Sure," I didn’t actually expect a prize but the gesture makes my face flush. I pull off my helmet and quickly stash the sweatband inside, then smooth the sides of my ponytail. I’ve actually planned my outfit, intentionally wearing a pair of cuter bike shorts, sans chamois, a bright, tight tank, and amethyst stud earrings. I’m even wearing my heat-activated, exercise fragrance.

T.J. hops off and walks his bike to the station’s rack then reaches for mine. I give it to him with one hand and he balks. “Holy, crap,” he does a few bicep curls with it. “This is crazy light, no wonder you beat me.”

“Yeah,” I tuck a loose strand behind my ear. “Carbon frame. Thanks.” I smile when he unhooks his lock and loops it through both frames. I feel disappointed the chase is over and wonder if I should’ve let him win. I turn to the glass sliding doors and smile again when he jogs to catch up with me; still chasing. The blast of conditioned air is refreshing and I close my eyes against it. When I open them T.J. turns his glance away quickly.

“Soda? Or Slushy?” he stops halfway between an aisle and the fountain machines.

“You really don’t have to,” I waffle.

“Oh come on,” he punches my shoulder and smiles.

The shoulder punch. Never could I have imagined that a single gesture would make me feel so crestfallen. “Thanks. Soda, I guess.” I shrug, moving down the row past the chips and jerky. I open a glass door to one of the cooling racks and grab a lemon-lime variety bottle. I startle when he steps in close from behind and takes a cola next to me.

“Feels nice,” he turns up one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin and I try not to stare at his lips.

My feeble response gets caught in my throat when I realize he’s holding his bottle against the soft spot beneath my tricep. I smack it away. “Thomas Josiah-”

He throws his hand to my mouth. “Don’t say that!” his eyes dart and I laugh beneath it.

I pull his hand down and pinch his fingers. “Then don’t do stuff like that,” I know I should let go but I just don’t want to. I stare for a few seconds and wonder if he can tell. I swear he looks like he’s about to lean in and it’s all I can do to keep from falling over.

“Close the door,” the attendant calls, and I jump.

I sigh and slam it shut then push it again as it bounces open with a shake of my head.

T.J. walks ahead of me without looking back and I know, I just made it weird. Now I won’t even get to have him as my friend because I couldn’t let go of this enamored feeling. I’m kicking myself as he pays and all the way back to our bikes. I don’t know how to get out of this black hole of awkward so I stand there like a totem of pubescent idiocy staring at the condensation on my soda bottle.

“Ya know,” he says as he unlocks the bikes. “You’re the only person who knows what the J stands for.”

“I know,” I smile as he stands to face me. I can’t help it, it makes me feel special. Even when I finally broke into the boy’s club they still had secrets with each other that I wasn’t in on, having this one felt like it gave me an edge, or at least an in, with him anyway.

“You mean you really never told anybody?” he’s surprised.

“Psh, no way.” I hold the bottle against my left cheek for a few seconds then switch it to the other, looking out at the road.

“Maya?”

“Yeah?” I look back and drop the bottle, catching it against my stomach as he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. It’s not how I’ve been fantasizing it would be but it’s real and it’s still actually happening. T.J. pauses, looking nervous, so I smile and kiss him again, placing my cold fingertips against his cheek.

He chuckles and takes them off, holding my hand at our sides instead.

A truck horn blasts rapid-fire making us both jump.

“Woohoo! Yeah, Tommy!” a guy I don’t recognize pumps his arm out the passenger window. He checks out my legs- ew- and waves as they disappear around the next corner.

“Who was that?” I turn back to find him staring intensely; smolder alert.

“My uncle,” he shakes his head. “My grandparents decided to foster late in the game, he’s their adopted pride and joy.”

“Aw, that’s nice.” I smile and twist the top of my bottle, not to take a drink just to have something to do with my twitching fingers.

Neither of us seems to know what comes next.

He glances at our bikes. “Drink these at the park? In the shade?” he hands me mine with one hand again, shaking his head at its lack of weight.

“Sure,” I clip in one foot and wait for him to secure the lock and mount his bike. “Race you there?” I give a wicked grin and take off.

“Don’t hold back this time,” he calls as he passes me.

“You asked for it,” I say to myself and shift gears, beaming.