They had been out for a long time, starting before dawn, meeting up with the crew and putting in a hard day on the bike.
She lived over in Torrance, ten easy minutes from the start in Malaga Cove, and he lived over in Pedro, 45 minutes with plenty of rollers if you went hard.
It was a pretty normal day. Everyone started fresh and eight hours later everyone wasn’t everyone anymore. Just the two of them, you see. Legs drained and heads even more drained they stopped at CotKU and shared a drink because they’d both forgotten cash or cards and the only change she could scrounge out of the recesses in her saddlebag was enough for one frap.
The taste was sugary and good but she still had ten miles to go, and for him Pedro was another ten miles on top of that.
Neither was talkative. Both were played out.
At Malaga Cove they were both running on whatever you run on after the fumes are burned. She looked over at him. He was dragging as bad as she was, maybe worse. “I’ll ride you halfway home,” she said.
He didn’t answer; they pedaled. As they passed the turnoff that would have taken her downhill and home, she stared straight ahead. It seemed like forever until they got to Western, the official Half Way Home. She nodded her head and arced the bike over to the other side of the street.
There was a noise behind her. It was him. “What the fuck are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m riding back to Malaga Cove,” he said.
“But you live in Pedro.”
“I know,” he said. “But I drove to the start.”
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