where kids played Tarzan on a rope hanging from a tree. Tres frowned at the kid then put his cell phone to his ear. Andy heard Tres' distant voice.
"Hello? Hello? Damn. Can't ever get a signal down here in the canyons."
Tres resumed slapping Andy across the face.
"Andy! Andy!"
Andy tried to fend off Tres' blows before he suffered irreparable brain damage, but his arms were spaghetti.
"Dude, quit hitting me!"
"I'll run up and call nine-one-one."
"I don't need an ambulance, man. I need a beer."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure I need a beer."
"No. That you're okay?"
"Yeah, except I can't see. Tres—everything's dark!"
"Dude, you still got your sunglasses on."
"Oh."
Andy removed the glasses. Tres studied him from close range for a long moment then broke into a big grin.
"Man, that was a spectacular stack! The most awesome face plant I've ever witnessed!"
Andy extended a closed hand to Tres; they tapped knuckles. A fist-punch.
"Glad you enjoyed it. Did get the adrenaline pumping, I'll give it that."
The kid turned away and yelled to someone, "He ain't dead!" Then he swung out on the rope and somersaulted into the water. Tres chucked Andy on the shoulder.
"The Samson theory held true—at least this time."
Andy tried to shake his head clear, but it just made him dizzy.
"How's the bike?"
"The bike? Who gives a shit about your bike? Look at yourself."
Andy looked at himself. He wasn't one of those weekend warriors who wore protective armor like the pros, so his body had absorbed the full brunt of the fall. Blood striped his arms and legs where tree branches had whipped him on reentry, and his knees and elbows sported strawberry-red road rash, which meant he would have to endure a week of painful bacon. His clothes were soaking wet and ripped to shreds, which wasn't much of a financial hit since he had acquired his entire wardrobe at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop—well, except his underwear. He drew the line at used underwear.
No jagged bones jutted through his skin, and all limbs seemed in working order, although any movement of his right shoulder or left knee produced extreme pain—hence the term, "extreme sports." His brain bucket had stayed in place and he wasn't bleeding from his ears, so he had apparently suffered no closed-head injuries. But he was bleeding. He spit blood and wiped blood from his face, but it couldn't be that bad because Tres was still looking at him. Tres had gone to law school instead of med school as his parents had wanted because he couldn't stand the sight of blood.
"I'm good."
His bike was not.
His sweet ride was now a yard sale. The wheels, frame, seat, and tire pump lay scattered over the white rock that was Sculpture Falls, limestone carved into crevices and furrows by the running water over millions of years. The Schwinn had slammed into the rock and disintegrated upon impact. That was bad luck. He still owed five months' payments on the bike.
"Finally got the bike dialed in, then I run into a tea party."
"Andy, if you'd hit those rocks instead of the water, you'd be in worse shape than your bike. Why didn't you bail?"
"Bike would've nailed the old ladies."
"Oh. A boy scout."
Andy stood. Either he or Tres was swaying side to side, he wasn't sure whom, until Tres grabbed his shoulders.
"Steady there, partner."
When the world finally stood still, Andy said, "My bike."
"I'll get what's left of it," Tres said.
Andy waited while Tres retrieved the remains of the bike. The wheels looked like potato chips and the frame like a pretzel, the tire pump would never pump again, and the seat was now floating in the water. Andy felt like John Wayne when the bad guys had killed his favorite horse.
"My trusty steed."
They climbed back up the ravine to the trail where they found Tres' bike and the three women waiting; they were wearing big wraparound sunglasses, visors that matched their color-coordinated outfits, and waist packs. The most dangerous obstacles on a single-track
"Hello? Hello? Damn. Can't ever get a signal down here in the canyons."
Tres resumed slapping Andy across the face.
"Andy! Andy!"
Andy tried to fend off Tres' blows before he suffered irreparable brain damage, but his arms were spaghetti.
"Dude, quit hitting me!"
"I'll run up and call nine-one-one."
"I don't need an ambulance, man. I need a beer."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure I need a beer."
"No. That you're okay?"
"Yeah, except I can't see. Tres—everything's dark!"
"Dude, you still got your sunglasses on."
"Oh."
Andy removed the glasses. Tres studied him from close range for a long moment then broke into a big grin.
"Man, that was a spectacular stack! The most awesome face plant I've ever witnessed!"
Andy extended a closed hand to Tres; they tapped knuckles. A fist-punch.
"Glad you enjoyed it. Did get the adrenaline pumping, I'll give it that."
The kid turned away and yelled to someone, "He ain't dead!" Then he swung out on the rope and somersaulted into the water. Tres chucked Andy on the shoulder.
"The Samson theory held true—at least this time."
Andy tried to shake his head clear, but it just made him dizzy.
"How's the bike?"
"The bike? Who gives a shit about your bike? Look at yourself."
Andy looked at himself. He wasn't one of those weekend warriors who wore protective armor like the pros, so his body had absorbed the full brunt of the fall. Blood striped his arms and legs where tree branches had whipped him on reentry, and his knees and elbows sported strawberry-red road rash, which meant he would have to endure a week of painful bacon. His clothes were soaking wet and ripped to shreds, which wasn't much of a financial hit since he had acquired his entire wardrobe at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop—well, except his underwear. He drew the line at used underwear.
No jagged bones jutted through his skin, and all limbs seemed in working order, although any movement of his right shoulder or left knee produced extreme pain—hence the term, "extreme sports." His brain bucket had stayed in place and he wasn't bleeding from his ears, so he had apparently suffered no closed-head injuries. But he was bleeding. He spit blood and wiped blood from his face, but it couldn't be that bad because Tres was still looking at him. Tres had gone to law school instead of med school as his parents had wanted because he couldn't stand the sight of blood.
"I'm good."
His bike was not.
His sweet ride was now a yard sale. The wheels, frame, seat, and tire pump lay scattered over the white rock that was Sculpture Falls, limestone carved into crevices and furrows by the running water over millions of years. The Schwinn had slammed into the rock and disintegrated upon impact. That was bad luck. He still owed five months' payments on the bike.
"Finally got the bike dialed in, then I run into a tea party."
"Andy, if you'd hit those rocks instead of the water, you'd be in worse shape than your bike. Why didn't you bail?"
"Bike would've nailed the old ladies."
"Oh. A boy scout."
Andy stood. Either he or Tres was swaying side to side, he wasn't sure whom, until Tres grabbed his shoulders.
"Steady there, partner."
When the world finally stood still, Andy said, "My bike."
"I'll get what's left of it," Tres said.
Andy waited while Tres retrieved the remains of the bike. The wheels looked like potato chips and the frame like a pretzel, the tire pump would never pump again, and the seat was now floating in the water. Andy felt like John Wayne when the bad guys had killed his favorite horse.
"My trusty steed."
They climbed back up the ravine to the trail where they found Tres' bike and the three women waiting; they were wearing big wraparound sunglasses, visors that matched their color-coordinated outfits, and waist packs. The most dangerous obstacles on a single-track
Similar Books
Finding Forever (Smoky Mountain Lawmen Book 1)
Ashley Quinn
Poems 1962-2012
Louise Glück
Private Politics (The Easy Part)
Emma Barry
Unquiet Slumber
Paulette Miller
Exit Lady Masham
Louis Auchincloss
Sunset & Vine: Loose Lips
Per Hampton
Trade Me
Courtney Milan
The Day Before
Liana Brooks
