“I stood underneath for twenty minutes pretending to inspect the fence.”
Lucy laughed.
The professional instructor did the first training.
Hammer watched from far enough away not to interfere.
Mara watched from inside a truck with both hands locked around a water bottle.
Lucy dropped the bike once at walking speed.
Mara nearly exited the vehicle.
Hammer stopped her.
“She’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s swearing.”
Lucy stood.
She was fine.
By the end of the course, she could brake smoothly, corner, maneuver slowly, and—most important to Hammer—recognize how little skill she actually had.
“Passing the course means you’re qualified to begin learning.”
he told her.
Lucy groaned.
“You people make everything less fun.”
“Excellent.”
The first time she rode beside Hammer on a quiet road outside Flagstaff, Mara followed in a truck.
Lucy wore full gear.
No club colors.
No Owen patch.
Hammer noticed.
“You didn’t bring it.”
Lucy shook her head.
“Why?”
She looked toward him through the helmet opening.
“Because it doesn’t need to go everywhere I go.”
Hammer smiled.
“That might be the smartest thing anybody in your family has ever said.”
Mara honked from behind.
They rode.
Slowly.
The road opened ahead.
For Lucy, it did not feel like becoming her father.
That surprised her.
She had expected some spiritual recognition.
A connection.
A sense of Owen in the engine vibration.
Instead it felt like learning a machine.
Wind.
Balance.
Braking.
Attention.
Her own fear.
Her own excitement.
Her own choice.
That was better.
At nineteen she asked to ride through Oak Creek Canyon.
Mara refused.
Then agreed.
Then refused the next morning.
Finally Lucy said:
“You don’t have to come.”
Mara stared.
“That is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
So Mara followed in the support truck.
Hammer led.
Lucy rode behind him.
Five riders came.
Not twenty-seven.
No procession.
No memorial spectacle.
They stopped near the place Owen had collapsed.
There was no cross.
No roadside sign.
No official marker.
Only a small metal chess rook Colt had hidden beneath a tree years earlier.
Lucy found it.
She crouched.
Touched the rusted top.
“Dad hated chess.”
Hammer laughed.
“That’s why we called him Rook.”
Lucy looked up.
“What?”
“He lost constantly.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
She stared.
“All these years I thought it was because he was strategic.”
Hammer laughed so hard he had to lean against the bike.
Mara emerged from the truck.
“What?”