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The bike trails made a show of tangling themselves in the forest, but they always led back to the same point.
Hervé wanted to break a new trail this time. He’d spent the whole of August following these gypsum-veined paths, their kid-crazy loops designed like play slides in summer camp. He wanted to skid some down a slope beyond the ones marked out in Geolithic swerves.
The Kevins, Lisa Patrocles, Tennis Janice, Zorb, Erik and Eric—they lacked nerve. They were bike-warriors from their mountain gear to their scuffs and scratches, but they were just doing it for the kicks. There was no sport-passion there, no desire to take a bad tumble for the sake of artfulness. Or in the name of a legacy.
Hervé hadn’t seen his parents for three years, and that made the not-coming-back swings he drew with his wheels seem more serious.