RIDLEY PEARSON
The day began as any other: sunshine, clean air, and a sky the color of the one-year date-a-versary sapphire ring she wore on her right hand. Her work schedule at the hospital varied, meaning that although a Tuesday, she thought of it as her Saturday. She thought of it as a chance to disconnect, to take morning time for herself and then run some errands before cleaning her apartment. Lacing her let bike shoe tightly to accommodate the mild ankle sprain from two weeks earlier, she tugged her ankle sock clear of the shoe while admiring the scars along the sides that interrupted the logo. Don’t call her a street rider; she took to the hills, she bushwhacked on her days of, putting in twenty to thirty miles, climbing and descending a few thousand vertical feet, and winning herself a diferent awe-inspiring view whenever possible. Her destination was Peregrine Point, a personal challenge that her boyfriend had told her was an unrealistic goal. By the time they’d turned of the lights, both sweating and breathing like they’d run a marathon, they had a ten dollar wager in place that she couldn’t make it up to Peregrine Point.
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