Trail Crossings: For the Love of Sports, #1

By Chrissy Q Martin

Lucy refuses to bike. Aidan vows to not give up on her. Will she choose the right trail to find healing?

 

Dealing with survivor's guilt, Lucy has let her life fall to pieces. Until a crash, she was at the top of the youth mountain biking scene. When Lucy's best friend, Ava, dies because of the crash, Lucy withdraws from everything in her life. Eight months later, during the summer before her senior year, Lucy is a dark shadow of her former self. Now Lucy's parents are forcing her to do things and Aidan, her training partner and Ava's twin brother, reveals his true feelings for Lucy.

 

Burdened by fear and guilt, Lucy struggles to put together the missing pieces of her former life. Scared to bike and afraid to admit her real feelings, Lucy sabotages Aidan's attempts to get close to her. Turning to running and a new friend, Lucy discovers she has the choice in which trail to take. Reconnecting with her former friends, Lucy finds the missing piece in her life and decides to bike after Aidan. But Aidan is carrying a guilt as deep as Lucy's, and when Aidan crashes, Lucy is faced with the same nightmare she thought she outran.

 

TRAIL CROSSINGS is a story of overcoming guilt, rediscovering yourself, and finding love, all with a side of sports.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swimmer Girl Books
• Release date: Apr 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223869283

Book preview

Chapter One

Through the tinted windshield I see it hanging on the bike rack, taunting me as it does whenever I come into the garage. The vivid orange frame is tangible evidence of my guilt and a haunting reminder. I avert my eyes, but the neon paint is hard to miss in the dark garage. My mountain bike seems to be a flashing marquee with Ride Me written on it. I ignore the plea. The bike might miss me, but I won’t allow myself to miss it. It’s the cause of all my pain and suffering.

With a scowl on my face, I grab my bag from the passenger seat of my dad’s car and shove open the driver’s door. Once out, I slam the door and keep my eyes off the mountain bike determined to haunt me. A thick layer of New Mexico dust coats the frame. The dust is from nonuse, not from riding dirt trails. The bike has been hanging in the same place for months, ever since my accident. There isn’t enough dust to cover the memory of the last time I rode it.

When I enter the quiet open house, I find my dad at the kitchen island, a fork in his hand and a plate in front of him. The scent of coffee hangs in the air and my stomach rumbles. I drop my bag on the bench near the door, kick off my shoes, and walk into the kitchen.

Hey, Luce, Dad says. I left some eggs on the stove for you.

Thanks. My words are the bare minimum.

I take a plate from the cabinet and step to the stove to examine the remains of Dad’s scramble. I never feel like eating, but I do because I’m supposed to. Like everything else in my life now, I do stuff to get through the day. The scrambled eggs are dry and stuck to the bottom of the pan. I scrape some bits out with a spatula and dump them on my plate. I feel like the eggs, dried out and piled up in a heap. Dad watches me while I grab a bag of grated cheese from the refrigerator. I sense his hazel eyes on the back of my head, boring into me and waiting for the right time to ask when I’ll get back on the bike.

I’m surprised you’re up early on your first day of summer. Dad lifts a cup of coffee to his lips.

The sound of the nearby highway resonates in through the open windows and fills the silence. Grated cheese cascades from my long fingers onto the scrambled eggs. I place the plate in the microwave and grab the first mug in the cabinet before answering.

Might as well keep a schedule, I reply.

I pour myself a cup of hot coffee and wrinkle my nose. My scent isn’t as pleasant as the coffee. I’ve been sweating at early morning spin classes at the community center every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since January. It’s now the last Friday of May.

When does work start? Dad swallows his coffee, with a repeated sip, sip, sip noise which causes me to cringe. It’s like listening to a clogged sink trying to drain water.

I roll my eyes, because Dad knows the answer and because his sipping sound drives me nuts. A week from Monday.

My shoulders flinch when another of Dad’s loud sips punctuate the silence. He makes the noise because he knows I can’t stand it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Seems like a good time to get back in the real saddle. Dad sets his mug down with a soft thud. There’s hesitation in his voice, and I know he’s worried how I’ll react. This conversation hasn’t gone well in the past. The irony of my situation isn’t new to me. It doesn’t seem right for a talented mountain biker to forgo the great outdoors and her real mountain bike to instead ride on a stationary bike in the dark hours of morning. It’s sad. The reason I do it is sad. Everything about my life is sad. And I don’t care, but I do care. Ugh. I’m a mess.

I’ll be riding my bike to work, I say.

I face away from Dad and pour a generous helping of flavored creamer in my coffee. I don’t know how Dad drinks his black. I prefer my creamer with a little coffee. I stir the creamer in, watching it swirl with the dark coffee to create a creamy concoction. A slight anxiousness builds in me at the thought of biking to work and I set the spoon down when my hand starts to shake.

Are you going to ride your mountain bike to work? Dad asks.

My shoulders tighten, compounding the tension always present in my body. I wish the bike would have disappeared after the crash. It’s not like I don’t know how to get back on the saddle after an accident. While I ride within my ability, sometimes accidents happen, and crashes occur while mountain biking. Most of the time I roll and pop back up with some dirt rash. At fourteen, I suffered a slight concussion after a bad crash and returned to biking when the doctor cleared me to ride a week later. When I was fifteen, I crashed in a 24-hour race, received stitches below my knee at the nearest ER, and was back on the bike in a few hours for my leg of the four-person relay. But this last crash…this one is different. This is one crash I wish I could forget, and the one I’ll always remember.

Dad lifts his mug and takes another obnoxious sip, and the noise brings me back to the moment. I inhale a substantial amount of air and rub my right wrist. I know Dad is trying to be helpful and I shouldn’t lash out at him. He’s patient with me, but I’m not ready for his type of help. I don’t even know what kind of help I need. I only know I’m a mess.

No. I’ll take my road bike, I finally answer. My road bike hasn’t been ridden in months either, but it hasn’t thrown my life into a tailspin like the mountain bike. I retrieve my eggs from the microwave and shuffle over to take a stool one away from Dad.

I’d think you’ll be more comfortable on your mountain bike. Dad’s persistent, but he’s not right. I can’t even stand to look at my mountain bike, so no…I don’t think I’ll be more comfortable on it.

It’s only three miles, I say and stuff eggs in my mouth to avoid having to say more. Three miles on a paved road should be a piece of cake. I’ve been riding the Santa Fe century or half-century since the age of eight. This year was the only time I missed riding it in the past nine years. I’ve also completed numerous endurance rides on my mountain bike. Three miles should be nothing to me, and it’s all downhill on the way to work.

Have you thought about riding the crest climb with me on Wednesday? Dad asks. I place another forkful of eggs in my mouth and don’t respond. Dad pushes it further. Your mom is taking your sister to ballet. I thought we could ride the tandem if you’re not ready to go solo.

A sigh escapes me. I drive Ruthie to ballet every Wednesday to have an excuse not to cycle. The crest climb is a weekly group road ride on the Crest Road to the top of the Sandia Mountains. The bicyclists start at the bottom and bike the thirteen miles to the top with four-thousand feet of elevation gain. After reaching the top of the Sandias at 10,678 feet, there’s the reward of thirteen miles of downhill. The Wednesday rides started in April to help prepare riders for the Santa Fe Century and Iron Horse Bicycle Classic in Durango, Colorado.

I don’t know. I scrape my fork around my plate.

The climb is great training for mountain biking and it’s exhilarating to get to the top under my own power, but right now it doesn’t appeal to me. There’s no motivation to be found in any portion of my body or brain. If I do have some hidden motivation, I’m not motivated to find it. I just don’t care, but I do care. Ugh. I’m a mess.

Everyone has been asking about you. Dad lifts his cup and proceeds to take another noisy sip.

I swallow hard and lift the coffee to my mouth. I hold it there and don’t take a drink. My eyes glimpse the design on the mug. My ceramic cup has a tandem bike on it. I have an urge to throw the mug, but instead take a slow drink. I really don’t want to be around others, especially on a bike, and people don’t want to be around me when I’m a shadow of my former self. A very dark shadow.

What are they asking? There’s an edge to my voice. It’s hard not to wonder what people are asking or saying. I’m sure everyone thinks it’s my fault. I know it’s my fault.

Lucy. Dad’s voice has a scolding tone, and he places his mug down with a sharp thud. They’ve known you since you were in diapers. They’re just concerned.

My parents started pulling my younger sister and me in a trailer on the crest climb years ago and we’ve gotten to know the perennial group. I progressed to a trail-a-bike behind my dad, then a tandem with one of my parents, and finally to riding it solo.

I narrow my eyes and take another drink. The sweetness of the coffee contrasts with my mood and I don’t feel a need to say anything else.

The tandem would be a good way to start out slow, Dad continues. You don’t have to worry about steering or braking. You can just pedal and ride along. We don’t have to go to the top this time. We can shoot for the ski area in the middle.

Hmm. I don’t give a definite answer.

Dad acts like I’m still on training wheels. Maybe I am. I haven’t biked in ages and mentally count the months. Eight. It’s been eight months since my crash. Eight months since her accident. And she wouldn’t have been in an accident if I hadn’t crashed.

It’s been long enough, Luce, Dad says. My eyes stare at the gray refrigerator covered in photos. Dad keeps his eyes on me. It’s time you got back on the saddle.

Eight months of not biking hasn’t seemed very long, but eight months without her has been an eternity. I can’t get back on the saddle. Because of the bike. Because of me. Because of her. It’s all the bike’s fault. I think that about the bike, but I know the truth. It’s all my fault. If she can’t get back on the saddle, then I won’t get back on.️

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END OF MAY – 1 YEAR AGO - SOPHOMORE YEAR

Time to get back on the saddle. I remember I patted the saddle of the bright blue mountain bike, a twin to my orange one. I gave my best friend an encouraging smile.

Ava brushed her gloved hands on the back of her tan shorts, the same color as the dirt covering them. I think there’s still a cactus barb in my butt. She pushed her tight dark blonde curls over her shoulder and craned her neck to look at her rear.

I don’t know why you chose the cactus to fall in, I said, a hint of laughter behind it. Ava had crashed and landed on the one cactus near a trail in the bike course through my yard.

I swear I’m going to get the garden clippers and take that thing out. Ava glared at the offending cholla for good measure and brushed her hands over her rear again.

A guy wearing a black helmet and riding a black bike threw a whip off the wooden jump next to us. The rear tire of the bike swung out to the side and the bike laid sideways in the air in a showy move. The guy skidded to a stop in the bermed corner, put a foot down, lowered his dark sunglasses, and peered at me with dark eyes. Everything okay, Lu?

Yeah, thanks, Gabe, I said, smiling at him. You can keep riding.

Gabe put his foot on the pedal and pushed off.

Tell Aidan his bike hates me! Ava yelled after the retreating form. Gabe lifted his hand in a wave to acknowledge what Ava said.

I held Aidan’s blue bike out to Ava. Best just to get back on and pedal it out, I said. Ava would feel where I pulled the cactus barbs out later, plus the bruises from crashing. I knew firsthand what it felt like.

Okay, Ava agreed. She pushed her bright pink sunglasses up her nose and grabbed the handlebar of the full-suspension bike. But only up to your house, because I’m pretty sure there’s still a cactus barb in my butt I need to pull out.

I’ll get you a brownie and soda. You deserve it. I picked my bike off the dirt and threw a leg over it.

My family hosted an end of the school year party for my mountain bike team and their families at our house, and Ava had joined me on a ride through the course in our yard. She took a tumble while riding her brother’s bike.

Then we’re going to your shed to get the garden clippers. That cactus is going down before it takes anyone else out. Ava placed her foot on a pedal and took off down the trail with a look of determination. I smiled. There was no stopping Ava when she made a plan.

Chapter Two

What do you think? Want to give it a go? Dad keeps trying to convince me to ride the crest climb with him.

The coffee mug is cradled in my hands, and I keep it in front of my face. I don’t know what to say.

The longer you wait, the harder it gets, Dad says.

Dad… I close my eyes and clench the mug tight enough it could break. I know I’ve waited. And I’ll continue to wait. It can’t get any harder than it already is.

Good morning, Lucy. My mom’s voice sounds behind me and saves Dad from me grumbling at him.

I peer at Mom over the coffee mug in front of my face. She retrieves a cup from the cabinet.

Morning, I finally reply. I set my coffee on the counter and wait for the next onslaught of hesitant questioning and daily affirmations.

How was spinning? Mom pours herself coffee and briefly glances over her shoulder at me.

Fine. My left fingers rub over the top of my right wrist where there’s a dull ache.

Tough workout? Mom grabs the creamer from the refrigerator.

Kinda. I leave out the details. I’m the youngest participant in the class. The instructor worked us hard today and said we shouldn’t feel guilty about taking time to become strong. The words don’t penetrate me and only increase my feeling of weakness, because a much deeper guilt saturates my soul.

I push around some bits of egg with my fork as Dad gets off his stool. He picks up his plate, gives Mom a kiss, and heads to the sink. Mom is dark like medium-roast coffee and Dad is light like creamer, and they blend perfectly. They’re almost disgustingly sweet as a couple.

Mom places her mug on the island between mine and Dad’s. Are you going to the team party tonight?

Dad is at the sink, across the island from us, and he shoots Mom a look with raised eyebrows. I knew one of them would broach this subject, but I wasn’t sure who or when. Mom wins, or loses, depending on how you look at it.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and set it on the counter. Two weeks ago, I saw the email from the head coach of the mountain bike team about the celebration ride and party. The past two years my family has hosted the end of the school year party at our house for the Albuquerque NICA composite youth mountain bike team. Dad asked me a month ago if I wanted to have the party and I answered with a simple No, and that was all we discussed. My parents have waited until the last moment to ask me about attending this year’s party.

I don’t think I’m up for going to town, I say. Albuquerque is what I’m referring to when I say town. The small cities in the mountains east of Albuquerque are collectively known as the East Mountains, and that’s where we live.

You don’t have to ride, Luce. Dad walks around the island. You should go to the party and hang out. You haven’t seen your teammates in months.

Mom places her hand on Dad’s forearm and squeezes gently. Is she reassuring him to encourage me? Or is she trying to keep Dad from saying something that will make me turn inside myself, like I always do?

I don’t say anything, and fortunately the silence is broken by Ruthie’s shrill voice yelling from her room. Seriously, family! It’s barely seven and the first day of summer. Let me sleep!

Mom walks across the living room in our open house to the small hallway where Ruthie and I have our bedrooms. Sorry, she whispers and pulls the door closed.

I chew a forkful of dry eggs and hope my parents are done with their daily onslaught of questions and statements meant to gently push me. They usually only end up inducing guilt. I can’t seem to please anyone, including myself.

What are your plans? Mom asks. She cradles her coffee mug and holds it in front of her face. It’s like the mug is a filter and she hopes the words come out in a way I need to hear them.

I pinch my cheeks in, annoyed because Dad and I just talked about this. I start work in a week.

No, Mom says. She and Dad glance at each other again. They talk to each other through their eyes. I mean, your future plans.

Her question is met with silence. I turn my phone’s screen on, but I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t texted or talked to anyone in ages and I don’t need to see the email about the party again. My finger hovers over the phone.

Mom pulls the phone away. Lucy. Her voice is serious. You have college in a year. We need to start discussing if your plans have changed.

I stare at the black countertop where my phone was. My throat feels like I have a wad of eggs stuck in it. I swallow and the lump doesn’t loosen.

Are you going to bike-

No. I have the answer out before Mom even finishes the question.

…at the Junior National Championships in July? Mom purses her lips together and sets her mug down. Okay. Are you going to join the NICA team this fall?

I tap my fingers on my mug, like I’m thinking.

Luce. Dad takes the mug from me and walks back to the sink.

I don’t know, I say. My answer is covered by the water Dad runs into the mug.

Do you still want to go to Fort Lewis College? Mom asks.

I drum my fingers on the countertop. What she’s really asking is…Do I still want to mountain bike in college?

I don’t know, I whisper.

What do you want to do? Mom’s voice rises an octave.

I don’t know.

Mom closes her eyes and tilts her head back before taking a deep breath. Mom has a fiery disposition and she’s trying to squelch the fire inside. We both have passionate natures, but I tend to keep mine bottled up and Mom lets hers roar out.

Okay. Mom exhales. It takes effort for her to resist reacting. If you’re unsure about mountain biking in college, maybe we need to look at a few more.

I scowl and Mom grabs my left arm firmly to keep me in place because she knows I’ll storm off to my room.

Lucy, this may be hard in the beginning, but you have to start somewhere. We’ve given you time to mourn, and we don’t want to push you to get over it or move on, but something needs to change. Your dad and I have decided we need to intervene. We’re going to pick some things you have to do this summer. Mom’s grip is strong on my arm. I want to rush away, but I sit back on the stool and instead narrow my eyes at Mom.

Like attending your team’s party. Even if you’re not riding, you can support them. They’ve supported you, Dad says. He stands on the other side of me. I’m in the middle of a parent sandwich.

I take deep breaths and try to push back the apprehension of seeing my teammates. I know they’ve tried to support me, and I’ve done everything I can to shut them out. It’s just too hard. They all remind me of that day. There’s no denying what happened is because I crashed. It’s all my fault.

We’ll drop you off at the foothills tonight, Dad says.

I struggle for a breath, as if I’ve been slammed to the ground and the air knocked out of me. It’s similar to when my bike threw me the last time I rode it.

No, I start to protest. My lungs won’t expand and take in the air I desire.

You have no choice. Dad places a hand on my shoulder. "You’re going. You don’t have to