boardwalk I enter Bubba’s Beach Bikes. The handwritten sign on the front window notes he’s already out of beach cruisers, but Bubba assures me he has a tandem bike he’ll rent to me for two hours. “And I’ll knock the price down to ten bucks because it’s in pretty bad shape.
Salty sea air rusts stuff.”
Bubba, a skinny guy with a long face and carrot-colored hair, wheels the bike out of the back room. Both seats are cracked and split, and rusty dots pit the frame.
“Perfect,” I say.
Bubba takes my money and wheels the bike, which squeaks like Aunt Evelyn on one of her bad-hair days, onto the boardwalk. “Okay, Captain,” he says. “Where’s your stoker?”
“My what?”
“Your back rider. I need to give you both a few tips. You each play different roles on a tandem.
Your stoker is your power on climbs, but he can also throw off your equilibrium. You need to work together on weight shifts, pedal force, and coasting. Tandem riding is all about teamwork. It’s about two riders becoming one.”
Who knew tandem bikes had so many rules? “I don’t have a stoker.”
He scratches the orange soul patch on his chin. “But you want a tandem bike?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Bubba looks at me as if I’m crazy but finishes the tandem lesson and sends me on my way.
I have no idea why Kennedy wanted to ride a tandem bike before she died. Maybe her film crush rode a tandem with the love of his life in her favorite movie, or maybe she never rode a bike because she was afraid of falling and needed someone at her side to help her conquer her fear. But I do know that a person’s past affects the choices she makes in the present and for the future. Case in point: As a kid I never caught on to math, so in the future I will not choose to be an accountant.
So what kind of past makes a person want to do a random act of kindness every day for a year?
Did Kennedy grow up in a family of do-gooders, or was she desperately in need of kindness because there was none in her world? My fingers curl around the gearshift. But the why doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I complete the list.
Pretty soon I’m cruising and squeaking along the beach walk. This tandem stuff is a piece of cake, no different from riding a regular bike and much easier than adopting four leatherback turtles and starting my own charity. But according to Bubba, tandem riding is all about teamwork … two riders becoming one.
I want to do things right, you know?
I growl so loudly, a woman on a bike with a kiddie carrier swerves out of my way.
So I need a stoker. My choices are few. Cousin Pen? She’d brake just to make me work harder.
Uncle Bob? In San Diego. Nate? Won’t go there.
Then it hits me. I know just who to ask.
My sophomore year a boy from detention invited me to a party at his house. While there, I ran into Macey, who said she lived a few doors down. At the party Macey and I spent most of the evening sitting on the pool deck with our feet in the water, keeping drunks from peeing into the pool.
I don’t remember much about the party at Detention Guy’s house, but I do remember he lived off Paseo del Sol. I pedal along the street searching for Macey’s house and try to figure out what kind of dwelling houses a teenage grim reaper. No black paint. No gravestones or cypress trees draped with wisps of moss. After I’ve knocked on two doors, a neighbor informs me the Kellingsworths live in the white house on the corner with lime-green trim and a salsa garden.
“You must be Rebel!” The woman who answers the door wrenches my arm nearly out of its socket as she pulls me into the entryway. “It’s so nice to have Macey’s best friend over. She told me all about you. How you help with the pies. How you hang out together after school. You’re the artist.
So talented. I’d love to see your work. Macey’s in the kitchen. Would you like pie?”
Macey stands at the kitchen sink, her
Salty sea air rusts stuff.”
Bubba, a skinny guy with a long face and carrot-colored hair, wheels the bike out of the back room. Both seats are cracked and split, and rusty dots pit the frame.
“Perfect,” I say.
Bubba takes my money and wheels the bike, which squeaks like Aunt Evelyn on one of her bad-hair days, onto the boardwalk. “Okay, Captain,” he says. “Where’s your stoker?”
“My what?”
“Your back rider. I need to give you both a few tips. You each play different roles on a tandem.
Your stoker is your power on climbs, but he can also throw off your equilibrium. You need to work together on weight shifts, pedal force, and coasting. Tandem riding is all about teamwork. It’s about two riders becoming one.”
Who knew tandem bikes had so many rules? “I don’t have a stoker.”
He scratches the orange soul patch on his chin. “But you want a tandem bike?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Bubba looks at me as if I’m crazy but finishes the tandem lesson and sends me on my way.
I have no idea why Kennedy wanted to ride a tandem bike before she died. Maybe her film crush rode a tandem with the love of his life in her favorite movie, or maybe she never rode a bike because she was afraid of falling and needed someone at her side to help her conquer her fear. But I do know that a person’s past affects the choices she makes in the present and for the future. Case in point: As a kid I never caught on to math, so in the future I will not choose to be an accountant.
So what kind of past makes a person want to do a random act of kindness every day for a year?
Did Kennedy grow up in a family of do-gooders, or was she desperately in need of kindness because there was none in her world? My fingers curl around the gearshift. But the why doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I complete the list.
Pretty soon I’m cruising and squeaking along the beach walk. This tandem stuff is a piece of cake, no different from riding a regular bike and much easier than adopting four leatherback turtles and starting my own charity. But according to Bubba, tandem riding is all about teamwork … two riders becoming one.
I want to do things right, you know?
I growl so loudly, a woman on a bike with a kiddie carrier swerves out of my way.
So I need a stoker. My choices are few. Cousin Pen? She’d brake just to make me work harder.
Uncle Bob? In San Diego. Nate? Won’t go there.
Then it hits me. I know just who to ask.
My sophomore year a boy from detention invited me to a party at his house. While there, I ran into Macey, who said she lived a few doors down. At the party Macey and I spent most of the evening sitting on the pool deck with our feet in the water, keeping drunks from peeing into the pool.
I don’t remember much about the party at Detention Guy’s house, but I do remember he lived off Paseo del Sol. I pedal along the street searching for Macey’s house and try to figure out what kind of dwelling houses a teenage grim reaper. No black paint. No gravestones or cypress trees draped with wisps of moss. After I’ve knocked on two doors, a neighbor informs me the Kellingsworths live in the white house on the corner with lime-green trim and a salsa garden.
“You must be Rebel!” The woman who answers the door wrenches my arm nearly out of its socket as she pulls me into the entryway. “It’s so nice to have Macey’s best friend over. She told me all about you. How you help with the pies. How you hang out together after school. You’re the artist.
So talented. I’d love to see your work. Macey’s in the kitchen. Would you like pie?”
Macey stands at the kitchen sink, her
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