Bikes, birds and the coroner’s office

Redefining ‘fun’

Let’s ride the Square2Square together!” Figgy enthusiastically bade. “We bike from the Fayetteville square to the Bentonville square. It’s 32 miles. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“No,” I answered without hesitation. “I can’t say that it does.”

She explained how I would pay someone to drop me 32 miles away, so I can find my way home. On a bicycle. When I’m already home. Why would I do this? “C’mon! We’ll make memories!” Figgy and I have been the best of friends since childhood. In seventh grade civics class, our teacher explained how America was once considered a “melting pot,” but now is a “salad bowl” because nationalities co-mingle yet retain their individual qualities. To illustrate, he made a diagram and went around the room, asking each student what part of the salad they’d be.

While most kids answered “lettuce” or “tomato,” we bobbed our tightly-permed heads and said, “Figs!”

In our poor rural area, it was more likely that a kid had seen a leprechaun riding a unicorn than had seen a fig. Mr. Ladd raised an eyebrow then wrote “Figs” in the chalkboard bowl. From that day on, we called each other “Figgy.”

The morning of the ride, they lined us up at the coroner’s office. That seemed like a bad omen to me. In line, it soon became obvious that Figgy, her young son and I were short dogs in tall grass. We’d never ridden more than a couple of miles. Experienced bikers questioned our abilities. I proudly countered that I ran marathons on Netflix all the time. Good thing I’d borrowed a bike with gears and left my old cruiser with bell, basket and Toto at home.

The first 10 miles were exhilarating. The air was cool as we chatted and pointed out things along the trail. Birds serenaded us, and flowers perfumed the air. I fell into a honeysuckle bush as I tried to get a closer whiff, while forgetting backpedaling didn’t stop the newer bike.

Figgy would happily announce our progress as her son provided a reality check of how many miles remained.

The next 10 miles were more challenging as hunger and fatigue set in. The bikers outpaced us and were long out of sight … until they began meeting us wearing their medals, having already made it to Bentonville and back.

Birds mocked us, and flowers stank during the last 12 miles. We had the trail to ourselves as our bodies contorted like dripping wax candles. But home and determination whispered to us. We crossed the finish line in five hours, just as they were tearing down the tent.

With medals ’round our necks, we hugged each other. We were exhausted. We were last. But we did it.

Figgy Jr., looked up at me and smiled a tired smile. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Aunt Elle,” he said. “Wanna do it again in the fall?” AGAIN? We’ve got to work on that boy’s timing. After my parts stop hurtin’, I might be convinced to do it again. But how ’bout we line up at Krispy Kreme instead?