"Deeitwasterrible."I say into the phone as I let my head fall back behind me. "I didn't even come close to the podium. My bike was making a weird clicking sound in the derailleur as I moved from third to fourth gear and back so I think it was skipping or one of the gears is bent."
"But didn't you finish eighteenth?" Dee says with a hint of challenge in her tone.
"I need top ten in the real race. Eighteenth in a half distance is like, terrible. And I'm not going to get there on that piece of shit." I say giving my bicycle a sideways glance in the rearview mirror.
"Well, I think you know how to dance."
"What?"
"He doesn't know how to dance, so he says the courtyard is crooked? You've never heard that one? You spend so much time at the restaurant I forget you didn't actually grow up in Nani's house."
"I still don't get it." I say as I turn on her car and start the four hour drive home.
"It's the Indian version of the poor workman who blames his tools."
"I'm not doing that. I'm saying I'd bebetterif I had better equipment."
"Okay.” She says, appeasing me. Because she knows as well as I do I am blaming my bike for my shitty results. “You headed back?"
"Yep, ETA says either four hours or fourteen depending on what angle I look at it from."
Dee laughs. "Maybe prioritize a new phone over a new bike? I dunno, seems like a good investment to me."
"I'll get right on that, as soon as I pay rent."
"Do you need an extra shift? I can ask Pa if he has one."
"You know I'll always work. Ask him and let me know." An extra shift would be an extra hundred dollars. Dee’s father pays me more than what I would earn if I did deliveries with an app. They're probably losing money on the deliveries I make. But I disassociate from that reality just long enough to accept the help. To accept their charity.
Because that’s what I am at this point; a charity case.
"Okay, drive safe, I'll see you when you get back." Dee says and then she ends the call knowing I can't easily navigate the cracked screen to do it myself.
My lips vibrate as I push out a huff of air. I have four hours ahead of me to reflect on my race. On every moment leading up to it.
And thinking of the moments before I dove into the water only brings up memories ofhim.
With training and gig work taking up more than all my time, I haven’t dated in three years. The months before Dad died were too full of hospital vigils to date either.
Even though I have less than zero time for a boyfriend, I can still appreciate a spectacular male form.
Tall, lean, salt and pepper hair pulled back in a sleek man bun, olive skin, dark soulful eyes, and a hint of spicy cinnamon when he spoke. He's every morally grey character I've ever read in the Little Free Library books I scout out while training, one in Roscoe Village is always stocked with romances.
His towering presence short circuited my already frazzled brain.
But he was grumpy. Not in a sexy way.
In a condescending way.
I saw him finish in the top ten as I ate my banana and walked to pick up my bike from the transition area.
The announcer called out his name and I nearly choked on my fruit.
Miguel Garcia istheTitaniumPerson athlete. You can't be in this sport and not know who he is. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize him right away.
I was probably too frazzled and embarrassed to process anything besides how to possibly fix the mess I got myself into.
Miguel’s career is one I can only hope to emulate.
