She reaches out to catch it but misses, and together we watch the dominos fall.
The entire rack teeters before falling to the side with a clunk and bikes crash against each other.
"Oh no, no-no.Fuck.That's like a million dollars worth of equipment." She cries as she dives forward to pull up her bike that is tangled in her lithe limbs.
I note the duct tape on the frame. And the scuffs that don't look like they came from normal training wear and tear. More like the kind you find on a kid's bike after a summer spent tossing it on the ground when they reach their destination. Before they learn how to take care of their things properly.
"At least." I observe out loud, trying to bite back my judgmentalness, as I watch her try to right the rack. Some bikes cost upwards of $10k.
Mine did.
"Yeah, I’m aware." She sasses back and then the air horn sounds signalling the imminent start of the next heat. "Shit. That's me."
"Really?"
"Yep and my heat starts in," she pulls a cracked phone out of the top of her suit. "Fuck, four minutes."
I watch as this tornado of a woman slides her phone into her plastic race bag and hangs it off her handlebars. She stands tall then assesses the number of bikes she needs to pick up versus the distance between here and the shore where she needs to start her swim.
"Can you umm…" she looks up at me and the blue in her eyes shocks me like a dip in an ice bath.
When I don't respond because I'm stunned by her wild beauty, she jumps over the stack of bikes and grabs my shoulders.
Before I know what's happening she's placing a kiss on my cheek, leaving it sizzling with heat, chirping a "thank you!" and taking off in a full, barefoot sprint.
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. What the hell just happened? I feel like I am stepping off a roller coaster.
Picking up the bikes she knocked over is not my pre-race ritual. Not even close.
I glance around for TP officials or volunteers to help. A few guys in vests are standing at the far end of the area. She was able to get the rack standing upright at least.
Shaking my head I start to rerack the bikes.
“Oh damn, what happened man?” A volunteer asks as he comes over and helps pick up bikes.
“Someone knocked it over.” I say.
“Someone.” He repeats like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah, some blonde. I didn’t see her bib.” Something stops me from pointing out her bike which has her number tagged on the crossbar. She’d definitely be penalized, if not disqualified, for messing with people’s equipment.
It takes a certain type of ego to run TitaniumPerson races. But the race will put that ego in check if you don't respect it.
My blonde banshee clearly doesn't respect the race if she's late, scrambling, and careless with her gear.
And other's.I think as I help to stand up the last two bikes.
Experience is the toughest teacher. The test comes first, the lesson later. And I’ve been tested. I’ve learned.
She clearly needs to learn some lessons.
Still, I can't help myself from walking over to the shore and hoping to catch a glimpse of her again.
Chapter three
Laney
Swim. Bike. Run. Life.
