Chapter 4

My gears clankand groan, shifting as I push my leg down, forcing myself to look up at the line of riders in front of me on the slow incline. My legs are like Jell-O, wobbling in the wind, while my butt bone grinds against the unyielding seat. I hate biking with the intensity of a thousand suns. I also really dislike the pack of bike fanatics up front who came on this trip to meet people and bike. Their matching blue bicycle shirts with their bedazzled names on the back glint under the Tuscan sun.

Seriously, who enjoys this? It's grueling and sweaty and uses muscles not meant for everyday activity. My glutes feel like someone took a baseball bat to them. I thought we would ride for half an hour and take pictures of the beautiful rolling hills and wander around tiny villages, but I was wrong. So very wrong. We literally bike six hours a day with a half-hour lunch break. If we want to take a picture, there are scheduled stops, otherwise we must balance our cameras while pedaling away. I went through my photos on my phone last night and I either have pictures of my leg, the ground, or the landscape is so blurry it looks like Cara's great-aunt Nellie, who's in desperate need of cataract surgery, took the photos.

I'm in the back of the group with Harrison, the twenty-six-year-old Kohler sales agent from Houston, who looks barely old enough to shave. With our little group is Lynnette, a recently divorced fifty-year-old from Maryland, who is on this trip with her sister Janice. They thought it would be more fun than a singles' cruise, but Lynnette is definitely realizing her misstep as we start the slow burn uphill. She hates biking as much as I do. Her groaning and moaning can be heard for miles over the picturesque Tuscan hills.

I glance over my shoulder to make sure she's still with us. "You okay, Lynnette?"

"Doing great, sugar," she pants.

Her helmet is sliding off to the side, her white-blonde hair hanging limp with sweat, and her sunburnt pink skin glistens in the morning sun. Harrison rides in front of me, my eyes glued to his legs, which look like pale toothpicks. His bike wobbles from side to side, as if it might tip over and take us all down at any given moment.

I jump when another car passes, blaring its horn. The front of the pack all wave their hands in a friendly greeting. I should be basking in all of the glorious Italian vistas and having the time of my life, not griping about sore muscles. I know this—I do—I'm in Italy, for Pete's sake. But my tennis shoe keeps sliding out of the pedal clasp, and the automatic gear keeps shifting as soon as I find my rhythm.

The front riders begin to sing "Eye of the Tiger" and I make a noise of disgust in the back of my throat. That song has been on A-team's playlist since we started. I clench my teeth together, pushing forward, one leg and then the other. My shorts chafe against my thighs as my tennis shoe slips off the pedal, again. I now understand why the front riders came prepared with spandex bottoms and shoes that clip into your pedal. I thought they were being annoying overachievers, but I see the practicality now.

I reach down for my water bottle, squirting the last drops onto my parched tongue. Our lunch stop is hours away, and I haven't been sweating, which leads me to believe I'm severely dehydrated.

"Harrison, I've decided I hate biking," I gripe, putting my empty water bottle back in the holder.

"Ah, cara, it's a beautiful day! Enjoy!" Romeo, our overly enthusiastic Italian tour guide, yells from behind Lynnette. You could tell him his dog died, and his response would still be, it's a beautiful day. I thought perhaps it was the only English phrase he knew, but he disproved that theory a few minutes ago when he had a conversation with Lynnette about her life back in Maryland. Romeo is just a happy individual living his best life with a cute Italian accent. It's hard to get annoyed with him.

"Romeo, my butt hurts," I whine pathetically.

Okay, perhaps not his best life.

"Ah, the joys of biking!" Romeo shouts back. "Comes with the territory. You'll get used to it!"

Poor Romeo is stuck behind our sorry lot because ‘No man gets left behind' is his mantra on this tour. I heard someone say he raced in the Tour de France. Now he's staring at Lynnette's backside, puttering along at ten miles an hour to keep us with the group.

Harrison weaves, and I almost crash my tire into the back of his bike.

"Harrison, are you drunk?" I squeak.

"I wish."

"God, me too."

It's only day two.

"So, I heardyou're from Cali. That's cool. I mean, that's great. I'm a cheese head. Wow, that came out all wrong." The sweaty guy with sandy-blond hair and a mustache plops down in the grass beside me without invitation, where I'm quietly trying to die alone during our afternoon break. "Hi, I'm Doug, from Wisconsin, thus the whole cheese-head thing."

"Oh, ha." I give him a wan smile. Even though this is a singles' tour, the last thing I want to do is flirt with Doug from Wisconsin.

"And your name is?"

"Summer." Please go away, Doug.

"Is this your first time in Italy?"

"Yes."

"Ah, me too. It's beautiful, isn't it? Are you liking it so far?" Doug has a pleasant smile, but he's wasting his time right now. I have zero interest in anything but a hot bath and a bottle of wine.

"Not really, Doug, no."

Doug chuckles and dangles his hands between his bent knees. "Well, hopefully, that will change for you."

Harrison dramatically sprawls out beside me and dumps a bottle of water in my lap. "I'm dying."

Doug smiles at Harrison. "Is this your son?"

I sit up and side-eye Doug. I may be exhausted and haggard-looking, but not enough to have a grown son. Sure, Harrison looks prepubescent, but still…why would I bring my son on a singles' bike tour? That's just weird.

I smile and say in my best Carrie Bradshaw voice, "No, Doug, he's my lover."

Harrison spits water all over himself.

"Oh, I…I didn't realize…" He glances from me to Harrison. "I'm sorry to bother you. I thought we were all single and ready to mingle here." He laughs nervously before he quickly stands and speed-walks away.

"Sorry, Doug from Wisconsin wouldn't leave me alone." I peel my sock off and poke the angry blister on my heel.

Harrison tucks his arms behind his head, watching Doug mingle with the others. "Yeah, he has desperate vibes written all over his face. Now he's hitting on that chick from Toronto. What's with the stache, anyway?"

"Don't be a hater just because you can't grow one. He'll probably be engaged by the end of the week."

"Mid-week."

"Bet you a bottle of wine on our last night here." I grin.

"Deal," he says. We limply fist-bump, too exhausted to put any energy into it. "What do you think of the A-team?"

I look over at the group of elite cyclists and peruse the potential knights in shining armor. There's the Lance Armstrong wannabe, Blake, whose skintight spandex shorts hug a disappointing bulge in front. Michael stands next to him, his dark skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. He is better endowed in the spandex department, but he laughs like a braying donkey. I could probably date him if he promised never to laugh. Don, the fifty-year-old who thinks he's Fabio with his wavy shoulder-length hair, chats in Italian with Ginny, while Garrett, the hipster New Yorker, stands off to the side with an air of superiority.

The women in A-team are just as bad. Toothy Naomi hangs on Blake's every word, while Jojo, who brought her medals from past triathlons, shows them off to anyone who will listen. Amy, from DC, laughs too loudly, drawing attention to herself, not to mention being so annoying when she and Michael laugh at the same time. And Ginny Pizaki from Michigan round out the group. The B-team is everyone else except us three—Harrison, Lynnette, and me—who didn't make it into the A-team, but I never comment on them because of Lynnette's sister. At least they don't wear matching cycle shirts.

Michael honks over something Don said, causing Harrison to clench his jaw. Lynnette, Harrison, and I make up the self-dubbed C-team. We're the group who got picked last in gym class. I've decided not to put much effort into finding the man of my dreams on this tour. I'm still hoping for a sign from the Universe I've made the right decision coming here.

Romeo and his co-guide Milo clap their hands to get our attention. "Listen up! We'll bike for another three hours and stay at a quaint hotel in Pienza, where we will have a wine tasting in the courtyard. Make sure you drink plenty of water."

I groan and pull my sock back up before gently shoving my tennis shoe on.

"I knew I should have booked the tour with an electric bike," Harrison grumbles.

"What do you mean, electric?"

"Didn't you see they offered a tour with motorized bikes that kick on if you struggle?"

"What? No! Is it too late to get one?"

Harrison smirks and stands, offering me a hand up. "Yeah."

I mutter an expletive under my breath and limp toward my ordinary road bike.

"Smile, Summer, it's a beautiful day, no?" Romeo yells as he pulls his bike up alongside us. I plaster on a smile for him.

"Romeo, can you drag me behind your bike?"

"Ah, Summer, you're a funny one. Andiamo!"

He starts to sing "That's Amore" while he waits for us to move. Harrison and Lynnette join in and I can't help but giggle as the A and B group look back at us curiously. I hum along, When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine…that's amore.

I soak in the breathtaking landscape around me. Limestone castles on top of hills with terracotta roofs sit nestled between tall cypress trees, guarding their fortresses like soldiers. Vineyards, green as far as the eye can see, make grooves in the hillside as they slope down to the roads twisting across the landscape. Bright red poppies interspersed with white daisies dot a field to my left. Mountains that separate the sky from the earth sit majestically in the distance, like purple giants surveying their lands. Humming along with Romeo, I close my eyes, breathing in the fresh air and feeling the wind against my skin.

Maybe this trip isn't so bad after all.

Despite all my groaning thus far, I can't help but wonder if this is what heaven would look like. A quiet beauty that lets your soul relax. Turning my face to the afternoon sky, the wind whipping my hair, I smile. So, this is what it's like to feel carefree. For the first time since Grams died, I can taste freedom on my tongue, and it's decadent and sweet. Something magical is going to happen. I can feel it in my heart.