Page 47 of Rhodes

I ease it out to where the bike wants to walk, hold it there, feed a touch of throttle, and it creeps. "That's the friction point. You find that, roll on gas, off the clutch evenly and you're in business. Both hands talk to each other."

It rolls a few feet, then I stop and kill it. I swing off, and she scoots up into the seat while I plant myself at her shoulder. "Now you try. Go slow."

She sets her feet, pulls the clutch, drops it into first. I watch her hand. She lets it out too fast, and the engine coughs and dies.

"Again."

She restarts and stalls it. Restarts and stalls it again, and the third time she feels it coming, her whole body tightening a half-second before the bike lurches and quits.

"I know what I'm doing," she snaps.

"Your brain does. It will just take a few tries to feel it. You've got this."

"Do you want to hold it or something?"

I step in, hand on the bar. "I can walk you through the⁠—"

"No." She shakes me off. "Move. I've got it."

I put my hands up and let her do her thing. She wants to solve it, so I let her solve it.

She stalls it twice more, cussing under her breath each time, and I don't stop grinning.

Then her hand finds it. The bike catches and rolls, wobbles, holds. We ride a slow line out across the grass. It bumps into second, but she doesn't stall.

She rips a full lap, muddy, and skids back grinning like a lunatic. "Trails, now."

"No."

"You're scared I'll beat you."

"Surviving a field doesn't make you Pastrana. But I do think you've graduated to riding by yourself. Still take it slowly, though. Can you do that?"

"I can."

She's easy to coach once I'm off the bike and feels in control. We run lap after lap, and I hold the line on no trails even while she keeps lobbying for them, because there's a difference between fearless and ready, and today she's only got the one.

Our fuel is getting low, so I motion for her to follow me back to the truck. We've had a solid three hours of riding, so I'm sure she needs a break.

I pull next to the trailer and get off. She stops beside my bike and pulls off her helmet. Her blonde hair falls out around her shoulders.

She's got a tiny dot of mud on the tip of her nose and is grinning like she stole something. It lands on me all at once, no flicker to it this time, nothing I can file. I want her.

"How about a cold one on the porch? I love sitting out here after a great day riding."

With her, a cold one means something entirely different.

"God, yes," she says with a smile as she gets off her bike and puts her helmet on the seat.

I take my thumb to her nose to wipe off the speck of mud. Neither of us says a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then I grab the Yeti out of my truck before we walk to the cabin. There are no beers in this one, and there haven't been since February.

We drop into the porch chairs simultaneously, both of us useless. My legs have that hollow shake in them from bracing the bike for hours, and she's slumped sideways in hers with one arm hanging off the rest. Her boots are caked to the ankle. We’re both still breathing hard.

I dig two bottles of water out of the ice and hand her one. I crack mine and drink half of it before I say a word.

"I was good, right?" She pulls the cap off with her teeth, spits it into the grass. "Like immediately, from the first second."

"From the first second you killed my engine."