We reach the southwest entrance of Central Park, and I see Cunningham licking furiously at an ice cream cone while he straddles his bike.

Eric is staring at him, and Cunningham glares at Eric. “What you looking at, rich boy?”

“More like bitch boy,” Fat Mike says, cackling.

“Nothing,” Eric says, “I just thought you were taking this more seriously.”

“Just cause I’m eating ice cream doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”

I sigh loudly and cross my arms. “Are we racing or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fat Mike says. “But we gotta iron out the terms and shit.”

“What’s to iron out?” I ask. “Whoever loses is banned from Critical Mass.”

“Right,” Cunningham says, looking up with ice cream on the tip of his nose. “But how do you win or lose when it’s two against two?”

“I figure,” Fat Mike says, “both people gotta cross the finish line. So whoever has both people cross first wins.”

“Fine with me,” I say.

Eric nods, “Good. Finish your damn ice cream and let’s go.”

“Take any route you want and get to the finish line by any means necessary!” Fat Mike shouts as he pulls out his phone and thumbs around for a bit, then cranks his speakers up.

The most annoying sound I’ve ever heard pours out of the speakers. Everyone turns around and looks at us, shooting me dirty looks because it looks like the four of us are all together.

The singer goes off in a fake southern drawl, seemingly not quite sure himself if it’s country or late 90s numetal. “I'm through with standin' in lines to clubs I'll never get in… It's like the bottom of the ninth and I'm never gonna win… This life hasn't turned out”

“God!” I hiss, “Nickleback? Are you seriously going to play that?”

Fat Mike grins. “I’ve heard you bitch about it at the shop, bitch, so it’s like... psychological warfare or some shit.”

“Don’t call her a bitch again,” Eric says, getting up in Fat Mike’s face. “or I’ll skip the race and just knock you out cold.”

“I told you, bitch,” he says to Eric, “I call everyone that, so long as they acting like bitches.”

I grab Eric by the arm and try to whisper into his ear, but he’s so tall he has to lean down. “We’ll take the actual bike path around Central Park. It’s longer, but our road bikes should get us to the finish faster—”

“No,” Eric says. “It’s under construction like a quarter mile uptown, I saw it when I was jogging the other day. That’s probably their trick with ‘by any route you want,’ trying to bait us into that while they tear through the middle with their off-road tires.”

“Shit,” Ruth says. “You’re not even supposed to bike through the park.”

“Well,” I say, shrugging, “we’ve got to risk it.”

“Let’s go,” Cunningham shouts at us, as if he weren’t the one holding us up all along with his ice cream. “Cops are gonna get set off by our music if we hang around here.”

“Turn it off then, dumbass,” I say.

We all line up right in front of the sign that says not to ride bikes, and Fat Mike starts a countdown.

“Five!” he shouts. “Four, three, two... GO!”

I’m already in the highest gear, and Eric and I get an early lead. I hear both of our gears click at the same time as we gain speed, but just as we get a good pace going, there’s what looks like a field trip of first graders all lined up and following their teacher. They are completely clogging the sidewalk—which is what it’s for, it’s not for bike racing, I remind myself—and Eric and I both have to turn off and go through the grass.

Fat Mike and Cunningham peel off on the other side. All the kids look at Fat Mike, whose speakers make his bike the loudest.

The thin road tires slow Eric and me down, and Fat Mike pulls far enough ahead that he pops a wheelie just to taunt us.

We reach the chain link fence surrounding the baseball diamond, and Fat Mike and Cunningham go right through the gate and bike across the diamond.

“This way,” I shout.

I pull back onto the paved walking path, and Eric falls in right behind me as we continue on the sidewalk. To our right are a bunch of tall rocks, artificially placed, of course. A lot of people are climbing on them, and some are looking down and watching us. I cringe thinking what they are saying, probably something like, “Look at those assholes racing on the sidewalk.”

We turn left at a fork and hit a small bridge. A young couple jumps out of our way and scowls at us as we pass by.

“Sorry!” I shout back at them.

“There,” Eric says, nodding his head forward.

There’s a big grass field down the hill and in front of us, and there’s people laying down, picnicking, playing music—just enjoying the park. Fat Mike and Cunningham are tearing through the field, barely dodging the people sitting down. They weave in and out between them like it’s some kind of Olympic slalom event. Their tires roll over picnic blankets and dogs’ leashes.

The road ahead is clear, and Eric and I shift into low gear long enough to gain some serious ground on them.

Fat Mike and Cunningham end up exiting the field on the sidewalk just in front of us.

We start to gain on them, and eventually we pass them.

Fat Mike just laughs as we pass—maybe he’s not really taking this seriously?

Eric pulls in front of me, and I follow him toward the narrow road that goes around the pond. As we get closer, we see a sign and a roadblock. The sign reads “DETOUR” and an arrow is pointing right.

“Shit,” Eric says, and he steers off the sidewalk onto the dirt road. I follow him.

We switch into higher gears and ride bumpily along the dirt road until we finally see the other end of the lake.

I look back to see Cunningham ram his bike into the roadblock. It falls down flat and he goes straight through.

By the time Eric and I are back on pavement, we see Cunningham and Fat Mike several hundred feet in front of us. The end of the park is in sight—the skyscrapers forming a seeming wall at the end of the greenery.

“Give it your all!” Eric shouts.

I get behind him, and he pedals hard, his ass raising up off the seat to really drive hard.

I try not to get distracted by how hot he looks, and I pedal as hard as I can.

We catch up to Fat Mike and Cunningham, and I hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing out of Fat Mike’s speakers. Did he seriously think he had enough of a lead to mess around with his playlist?

“Shit!” Cunningham says, looking back at us. It’s clear we’re going to pass them, and—

Fat Mike spins back and does a 180, and he goes straight for me.