“Nate! This is Tim!”
My jaw hung open, the phone pressed against my ear to the point of pain.
“You’re calling me!” I said after utilizing my intense powers of deduction.
“Yeah!”
“How can you when you’re riding?”
I waited.
A great gasp crackled through the speaker.
“PRACTICE!”—another grand inhalation—“oh…blasted hill. Yeah, it just takes concentration, and…”
“Timmy? Are you okay?” He was crazy on the best of days. “This sort of thing will get you disqualified by the judging board,” I warned.
“Judging board? Come now, not that comical joke. They’re—WOOHA,THAT’S RIGHT, CHUMP—too busy with all the dropouts. And see, they’re carrying a body out now. Poor sucker.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You’re gonna get killed if you don’t try to pace yourself.” I seemed to be on a cautionary spree today.
“Pace? Nate! You know when I do that, I can’t hold back. I’m a bicycling force of nature! NO PACING!” His breathing became ridiculous.
“Tim, what place are you in?”
“23rd,” he replied heavily.
I hung up.