Latitude Zero by Diana Renn Read Free Book Online

or ten miles an hour that way.”
    Now I came within inches of the bike wheel in front of me, just as I’d watched Jake and his team do in that video and, later, in countless live races. I checked the gear that the rider in front of me was in, and I shifted into the same gear. That was it. I was drafting!
    It felt as close as I’d ever come to flying. I instantly felt the pull, the boost.
    I tried to keep Juan Carlos in sight. Then I glanced down at my wheel. Oh, no. I was overlapping the wheel in front of me. And we were starting another descent. I feathered the brakes instead of squeezing them hard, to try to stay in control. Then I downshifted, matching the gears of the paceline again. Success. I grinned. I was keeping up! The paceline hadn’t accelerated and dropped me. Maybe they didn’t know I was there.
    But my conscience nagged. Drafting strategically in a race was legit. Drafting a paceline, without ever taking a turn at the lead? That made you a “wheelsucker.” A “leech.”
    A yellow diamond sign with the words SLOW DEAF CHILD distracted me for a moment. I felt sorry for whoever that was, his or her disabilities announced to the world.
    I caught sight of Juan Carlos off to my right, toward the road shoulder. Oh my God. I was
passing
him now, with the help of my poached paceline. Either I was riding faster than I’d ever ridden, or Juan Carlos was in some kind of trouble.
    He was grimacing, looking down at something. Was something wonky with his bike? God, I hoped not. Unless he’d gotten my half-finished text and sent someone to retrieve that spare bike in the woods, he was screwed if his main bike had a mechanical problem.
    Was he going to pull over? Had he lost contact with his team? The pros all wore earpieces and two-way radios to communicate with their coaches, but sometimes things went wrong. Could I give him my phone? Could I help?
    I swerved back. He thought I was here with
KidVision
, not riding. What could I do?
    Stay on the wheel, Tessa
.
    I looked straight ahead, blinked, and focused on that photo on the jersey in front of me. The woman pictured smiled warmly, one arm slung around a golden retriever. Beneath her marched somber black numbers.
1974–2014
.
    The woman was Maureen. The woman was dead. This team rode to honor her memory.
    My mind flashed to Kylie’s mom. Beth Sullivan had been diagnosed with breast cancer last fall. I hadn’t been such a good friend to Kylie all the months her mom was in chemo. A couple of weeks ago, I’d seen her mom at an end-of-year academic awards assembly. I’d been so startled, I could hardly look at her, even as I gave her a hug and asked how she was feeling. She had lost her hair and her eyebrows. She had dark circles under her eyes. I’d said some cheerfully optimistic things, then escaped as fast as I could. I didn’t know how Kylie did it—kept up her spirits, her grades, her activities, with the fear of losing her mom always hanging over her.
    Seeing that image in front of me—which might as well have been Beth Sullivan—I could not be on this ride anymore. Game over. I was out.
    The hill got steeper and started to curve. What had Jake done on curves? He’d brought up one knee higher so the bike would lean and turn, and not shoot forward. Right knee or left? When? No. I had to get out before the turn got too sharp. I had to get out now.
    Without sparing even one second to glance behind me, I jerked my front wheel toward the right road shoulder. I dropped out of the slipstream. And slipped.

8
    KALEIDOSCOPE. SHARP images. Spokes and derailleurs. Tires and chains. Everything spinning, spinning, spinning. A high-pitched whining sound.
    Then I was on asphalt, spitting dirt.
    That whine, and scraping sounds, went on and on. It took me another moment to realize it was the sound of bikes falling. People behind me continued to crash.
    I eased myself up on one elbow. My cleats had come out of the pedal clips. My bike was several feet away.
    “Riders