Girl on Track

10| Teach me how to ride

The morning starts off cold and wet. It takes longer than usual to weave through the traffic, so by the time I make it to the track, I'm seven minutes late. I push my bike toward the circuit, where Tyler is getting soaked in the rain, arguing with Alex.

The pair of them turn when I approach. Tyler folds his arms at me, his dark hair wet and sticking to his forehead. His face is littered with tiny raindrops, and he runs his palm down his face to get rid of them.

"Hey," he says. "I've filled Alex in on the new plan. She's cool with it. Right, Lex?"

He nudges her with his shoulder, forcing her to glare at him. Slowly, she turns to me and forces a smile. "I'll catch up with you during your shift later." She heads back to the patio without waiting for my response, leaving me feeling nervous.

"I don't want to get involved," I say, turning to Tyler. It's hard not to notice how good he looks standing in the rain, like a guy from one of those boyband posters that used to cover my bedroom walls. "Whatever issues you have with each other, keep me out of it."

He raises an eyebrow. "Noted. You still want to ride in this?"

"I'm not scared to get wet, if that's what you mean."

He hides a smirk by flicking down his goggles. "We'll stop if it gets worse. Riding in the mud can really screw up the bearings in your bike."

I swing a leg over my bike and watch as he does the same. I'm not used to such temperamental weather but, like this town, it's starting to grow on me.

"All right, I'm going to ride behind you," Tyler says. "I need to get a feel for your technique–your weak spots."

I don't like the idea of him looking for my weak spots, but I suppose that's the point of this circuit. If I want to get better, I need to iron out the kinks. A crack of thunder rumbles in the sky. I ignore it and start slow, working my way down the track while Tyler rides behind me.

My heart pounds in anticipation. In some ways, riding a bike is like poetry in motion. The power starts in the engine, flowing through my thighs and up through my body, all the way to my wrists and hands. It hums through my skin, purring like a steady heartbeat. The front and rear tire contract to the soil, highly tuned to my movements. Sometimes, when I'm riding, I swear it's not me controlling the bike, but the bike controlling me.

I spend the next few laps showing off. I figure if Tyler is going to be judging me, I might as well go all out. We go a few laps before he powers ahead and signals to me. He heads to the finish line and slows to a stop, so I pull up beside him. When we pull off our helmets, I expect him to smile, but his expression is business-like.

"First thing we need to fix is that leg," he says.

I'm truly offended. "What's wrong with my legs?"

He slowly lowers his gaze to my thighs. "Nothing, physically." His eyes flit back up again. "You're hanging your inside leg and letting it dab through a corner. You also stand for too long on your jumps, which is cutting into your speed. I could go on, but we'll work on fixing those first."

My eyes darken. I'll admit, I have never been good at constructive criticism. "Don't you have anything good to say?"

He stares at me for a second too long. He seems different when he's in Motocross mode. More serious. "If I didn't have anything good to say, I wouldn't be training you."

It's a breadcrumb of a compliment, but my heart jumps anyway. "What now?"

His eyes rake over me. "You work out?"

"Excuse me?"

"At the gym," he says, as though it is obvious. "You need to be supplementing your riding with regular weight sessions."