BRADY UDALL
It was there, gasping for air, on the narrow mesa, that she saw the rider. Just a silhouette rounding a bend about a quarter mile up, there and gone. This was where she normally stopped for water and a little rest, but as she slowed down she decided: not today. Water and rest could wait until ater the next ascent. And she liked having another rider within sight. It gave her motivation. She would overtake him — and she really hoped it was a man — or kill herself trying. She coasted through a short dip, the scenery blurring pleasantly past, grasshoppers zinging into the bushes in front of her, before attacking the next rise. She was just cresting the next ascent, feeling for all the world that not only would she make Peregrine Point today — but make it easily — when she heard the skidding of tires, a short yelp, and then the distinctive sound of body and bike making contact with the ground, again and again. She pushed hard over the rise, and saw a small cloud of dust rising lazily into the air. She rode until she saw a bike tire sticking out of a clump of sagebrush on the
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