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  When they reached the clubhouse, Billy quickly dismounted and came running over to him.

  “Boy, I’m really sorry for what happened out there,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just a little grossed out from all the filth that got kicked up,” said Doug, wiping his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. “How come you were following so close, anyhow? You know that can be dangerous. You don’t have any room to maneuver if anything happens.”

  “You’re right,” said Billy. “I just forgot to pay attention. Before I knew it, there you were shouting at me. It threw me for a minute.”

  “But you got the message,” said Doug.

  “Sure, but I put you in danger,” said Billy. “That really bums me out.”

  “Well, I’m okay,” said Doug. “Hey, we’d better go inside and listen to what Red has to say.”

  As they took their seats, Red was just starting to outline a training program for those who were still interested in becoming what he called “competent” cyclists. It involved regular exercise and a daily prac tice routine. Records had to be kept and would be discussed at future group meetings. He then handed out copies of the training program.

  Doug took one look and shook his head. At first, he couldn’t see how he could do it all. He felt like a juggler trying to keep a whole lot of things up in the air at the same time. There was his new workout routine, cycling practice, the Rails to Trails project, helping out getting ready for the wedding—and there were only eight weeks left of summer vacation to do it all in! Maybe he could cut down on something.

  Just as quickly, he realized he didn’t want to cut down on anything. He liked what he was doing. He felt good. He wanted to keep feeling that way. Somehow or other, he’d find a way to work it out. Maybe he could talk it over with Red and put together a personal schedule.

  Billy’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked at the training program.

  “Sure’s going to take a lot of work,” he said. “That’s the part I don’t really like much. But I guess we just have to do it!”

  “You betcha,” said Doug.

  They looked up at each and burst out laughing.

  8

  “It says here that the video arcade was completely covered by insurance,” said Mr. Cannon, looking up from the evening paper. It was two weeks after the Lakeridge Cycling Club’s first ride together. He and Doug had gone out to the porch after dinner. As usual, Doug was stretched out on the swing.

  “Are they going to rebuild?” he asked his father. “That’ll take forever.”

  “Not right away,” came the reply. “No, they’re looking for some vacant space downtown to relocate. Hope to be open in a few weeks.”

  Doug brightened up. He was sore and achy from his cycling exertions. Maybe playing some videos would be just the kind of break from routine he needed.

  Red had agreed that Doug could count his rides to and from the Rails project as part of his training pro gram. When he sat down with Doug to go over the plan, Red had carefully worked out the time and effort it took to get to the job site by traveling different routes. He figured how much rest there ought to be after each trip, how much actual on-the-job stuff Doug did, and so on and so forth. Finally, he had a neat chart with everything on it for the five working days of the week.

  “Weekends are completely up to you, pal,” he said.

  Doug’s eyes grew huge. “Wow! This is a real serious, honest-to-goodness fitness program!”

  Red laughed. “Of course it is! Fitness is nothing more than getting into shape. Only with this program, you’re getting into shape and developing a special skill at the same time. Hey, it’s two for the price of one!”

  “Gee, thanks a lot,” said Doug, looking a little bit skeptical.

  “You just watch,” said Red with a laugh. “You’re gonna love it.”

  By this time, Doug had survived the purchase of some decent cycling clothes. Mrs. Cannon had volunteered to take him over to the mall to pick them out. But Doug had a different plan in mind. He arranged to meet Mr. Cannon at his office one lunch hour. Together, they visited a specialty sporting goods store some distance from the mall.

  Mr. Cannon waited quietly while Doug tried on different outfits and finally selected a shirt and shorts combo that didn’t make him look too much like a blimp. Still, he vowed to wear the outfit only when biking. With the helmet and goggles he already had, he figured he’d look okay.

  At first, Doug thought his father didn’t approve of what he had picked out. But then Mr. Cannon had pulled out his charge card and asked the sales clerk to bring three more of each item to the counter. As they were being rung in, Doug thanked his father.

  “I consider it money well spent, son,” he replied.

  Suited up in his new gear, Doug had faced his first week of real training with enthusiasm. In fact, the only thing bothering him had nothing to do with biking. As the summer days ticked along, it was the wedding— and the tuxedo and the as-yet-unbought wedding gift—that weighed on his mind.

  Now, sitting on the front porch, Mr. Cannon inadvertently gave Doug an idea about how to solve one of those two problems.

  “Oh, by the way, I saw something in the paper that might interest you,” said Mr. Cannon. “There was a small item that said Jack Millman, the head of the Lakeridge Cycling Club, just announced that they’re going to hold a charity event. Called it the Tour de Lakeridge. Sounds pretty fancy, but it said it’s for all ages and levels. You know anything about that?”

  Doug scratched his head.

  “Oh, yeah, he mentioned that the first day I went over to the club. But I don’t really know much about it. I’ll check with Red.”

  On Monday, when they took their midday break at the Rails to Trails project, Doug asked Red about this Tour de Lakeridge. As soon as he mentioned the subject, Red was all smiles.

  “Darn! Newspaper beat me to it!” he said. Then he showed Doug a roll of posters he’d brought along in his backpack that day. They were greenish blue, with a picture of a racing cyclist and all the words in white.

  “I could use some help putting them up around town,” said Red.

  They look real neat, Doug thought. “Sure,” he said. “But what is it, anyhow? Sounds French.”

  Red explained that a “tour de” was just a cycling term for a “trip around” somewhere. And this partic ular tour was a charity event. It was also an unofficial tour. The results didn’t go into any record book.

  In this case, there were a number of different routes of different lengths so that anybody could enter. The idea was for participants to get people to pledge a certain amount of money per mile. Then the bikers would complete the circuit and collect the donations. The proceeds all went to charity.

  “The club has participated in a number of these events, but this is the first time we’ve had one of our own,” said Red.

  “How come?” asked Doug.

  “It’s a lot of work getting it organized,” Red replied, thumping the posters. “Plus you really need a good-size membership to start off with. Of course, anyone can enter, not just members. So it could be pretty big.”

  “Sounds like it’s way out of my league,” said Doug.

  “Nope,” said Red.

  “What? Did I hear you right? Are you saying I could take part in a real race?” Doug asked.

  “It’s not a race,” said Red. “It’s a challenge. You’re setting a goal for yourself and trying to reach it—along with a pack of other riders.”

  “Hmmmmmm,” said Doug. “Well, I’ll help you put up the posters, but I don’t know about doing anything else.”

  “Fine,” said Red. “But in case you do get interested, here’s a little brochure that tells you the rules. It has an application inside, too. By the way, how many miles are you doing a day now?”

  “Let me see,” said Doug. “On days I work, back and forth to the project is about six. And I do five miles on my own later. Eleven. I ride about a little more or less on other da
ys.”

  “The basic ride in the Tour is only twelve miles. And the event is still two weeks off,” said Red. A shout came from behind them. “Hey, we’d better give those guys a hand filling in that hole over there.”

  He leapt to his feet and headed off toward the work crew.

  Doug stared at the cover of the brochure, then tucked it in his pocket. He followed Red slowly, his mind filled with a whole range of new thoughts: Was this something he could do? And was it something he wanted to do?

  He decided he’d have to give it a lot more thought.

  That day, on the way back home, he had a hard time staying behind Red. He found himself pushing just a little harder.

  When he arrived home, he parked his bike and went in the back door. On the kitchen table was a note from his mother. She and Kate were down at the mall doing something about bridesmaid’s dresses. Dinner might be a little late. There was a batch of newly baked brownies on the counter.

  Doug looked at the brownies, but what he really wanted was a tall drink of water. He chugged it down and left the kitchen to go change his clothes. The brownies could wait.

  Up in his room, he took out the brochure and read it carefully.

  To benefit a group of local charities.

  A pleasant, scenic 12-mile loop.

  Rest stops are provided along each course.

  Will he held rain or shine.

  Each entrant will receive a specially designed Tour de Lakeridge T-shirt.

  The top three finishers in each level will receive a Tour de Lakeridge commemorative water bottle. The first-place winner will also receive a silver trophy bowl.

  There will be a post-tour picnic in the park opposite the clubhouse.

  The registration fee is one dollar for each mile of your event—or five times that number in collected pledges. Donations can be made in your own name or as a tribute to someone of your choice.

  Phew! That told him a lot. And through it all, one thought wouldn’t go away: How could he face Red if he didn’t take part? Wasn’t this the sort of thing even beginner cyclists had to do? What’s that thing his mom called it whenever he did something big—a rite of passage?

  It looked like this passage was going to be a twelve-mile ride. For an instant, an image from a faraway dream passed through his head. “Can-non! Cannon!” screamed a crowd of fans. Doug looked down at the pamphlet in his hands.

  It may be a far cry from the Olympics, he thought. But it’s a step.

  He wondered whether Billy Torrant would enter the race. It would be kind of fun to have a buddy out there. Then he thought of someone else he’d like to have out there. Someone who loved cycling. An idea took root in his head.

  That evening, he took his father aside.

  “Dad, are you going to be in your office tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Mr.Cannon. “Why?”

  “Mind if I stop by?”

  “Of course you can,” said Mr. Cannon. “Anytime you like.”

  The next day was an off day for the Rails to Trails project. Doug did his practice run, then got cleaned up and went down to Mr. Cannon’s office. He was armed with a pledge book he had picked up from Red earlier.

  “Dad,” he said. “Will you sign up to sponsor me for the Tour de Lakeridge? See, it’s a charity event. You pledge to pay so much if I complete the distance I sign up for.”

  “Doug, nothing would make me happier than to be a sponsor. Where do I sign?” asked his father.

  He took the pen, started to sign, then stopped. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a notation Doug had added to the pledge form.

  “The money collected is being donated to cancer research. Riders can leave that space blank and donate their collections anonymously. Or they can write in someone’s name and give the money on behalf of that person. I decided to fill it in. But don’t tell, okay? I want it to be a surprise.”

  Mr. Cannon grinned, signed, and handed the book back to Doug.

  “Is it okay if I ask a few of the others?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Mr. Cannon. “They hit me up often enough, and this is definitely a worthwhile cause.”

  Doug circled the office and collected quite a few sponsors with generous pledges. He thanked everyone and was heading out the door when he heard his father’s longtime assistant, Mr. Atwood, say quietly, “I can hardly believe that’s Doug Cannon. He’s really trimmed down and looks so healthy!”

  Doug couldn’t see it, but someone else had overheard the same remark. Inside his office, Mr. Cannon’s chest swelled with pride.

  9

  Collecting pledges turned out to be the easy part. Getting himself prepped was a lot harder.

  It wasn’t simply practicing the twelve-mile run. He knew he could do that. It was everything else—like showing himself cycling in front of a zillion people. Despite the nice comments he heard, like the one in his father’s office, there were still a few people who still saw the old Doug Cannon when they looked at him.

  He tried to avoid checking himself out in the mirror, but he still caught glimpse of bulges here and there. Those rolls didn’t just disappear like magic. He still had a way to go.

  And what if something unexpected happened during the event. Pepper Meade and the gang were due back any day. Leave it to them to do something stupid like throw banana peels in front of him. That’s just the sort of thing they’d think was funny. Well, maybe they wouldn’t even know the event was taking place—much less that he was in it.

  Doug groaned. There were so many things that could go wrong. Maybe he ought to just chuck it all and spend his time practicing video games on his computer. Someday the arcade would reopen.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Kate shouting to his mother in the dining room. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. “I want to watch the local news on TV to see the long-range weather forecast.”

  “Well, I’m ready for dinner,” said Doug. “I’m starved.”

  They were camped on the living room floor watching TV.

  As he got up to leave, the TV announcer caught him by surprise.

  “A final note before the weather. The video arcade damaged by fire will be open for business at its new location in just a week. The grand opening is scheduled for next Saturday.”

  Next Saturday! The same day as the Tour de Lake-ridge! Rats! Well, it would just have to wait.

  Doug had been training hard for the past week. He’d collected a slew of pledges and had turned in his registration form.

  He’d also studied the course. He found out exactly where the rest stops would be and worked that into his training schedule. It was good to know that he wouldn’t have to go the full twelve miles without a stop.

  Most of the kids in his beginners’ group in the club had also entered the event, including Billy. One had to go off to the seashore with her family, so she couldn’t. Another one just didn’t feel up to it.

  During the past Saturday training session, Red had gone over everything he thought they should know. His closing advice was, “Remember, this isn’t an official competition. You’ll probably have a lot more events like this in your lives. But it’s your first, so try to enjoy it. And good luck.”

  By that point, Doug knew for sure that he could do the course. The question was, would he disgrace himself by coming in last? He knew it wasn’t a race, but he didn’t want to be the last one in his group to cross the line. And again, the chance of a surprise, what if he didn’t finish at all? How could he show up at the picnic after that?

  The picnic, that was something else to think about. There’d probably be lots of people he knew there. Maybe he could simply do the course, then slip away without going to the picnic. Instead, he could zip over to the arcade and try out any new machines they had.

  Kate clicked off the TV and said, “No big weather news. Let’s eat. Hey, you need to make sure you’re getting all your vitamins. You’ll need all your strength for Saturday. That reminds me, we have to talk strategy. Oh,
I know, Red’s a good coach, but I am what’s called a veteran observer. I can give you a pointer or two.”

  “Are you planning to watch it? I mean, are you really interested in it?” Doug asked.

  “Are you kidding? Terry and I are going to watch it from the start. Then we’re going to cut across so we can see you go by about midway. And then we’re going to zip over to see you come in at the finish,” she said. “Mom and Dad will meet us there with some extra treats for the picnic.”

  “Great,” said Doug, sitting down at the table.

  That takes care of any plans to hit the arcade. I’ll have to wait until Monday, he decided.

  The scene in front of the Lakeridge Cycling Club on Saturday was something Doug could never have imagined. There were hundreds of cyclists all decked out in full gear. They were walking, leaning on, straddling, or simply holding on to a huge variety of bikes. Half the people had white cards with jet-black numbers on the front and back of their shirts. Others were standing in line waiting for theirs to be handed out.

  Edging his way through the crowd, Doug found the registration desk with “A to F” posted on a sign above it.

  “Cannon, Douglas Cannon,” he said to the gray-haired man seated in front of a large file box.

  “Right, here you are. Number 603. I hope it’s a lucky one for you,” came the reply. “Oh, you’re in the twelve-mile course. It doesn’t begin for another two hours. That is the right one, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Doug. “I just wanted to be here for the very beginning. I don’t want to miss any part of it.”

  A few minutes later, the gun went off as the fifty- milers took off on their long, grueling ride. An hour later the thirty-milers would take to the road.

  “Gosh, I don’t know how they do it!”

  “Has anyone seen my kid sister?”

  “Don’t forget, we’ll meet at the picnic.”