One Word Erased Every Pain by Clark Mahoney (room on the broom read aloud txt) 📕

Part I

“Goodbye,” Elisa called. No one responded.
“I’ll be back in awhile,” she yelled. Nothing.
“Okay, I’m running away because NO ONE loves me here and I hope that you miss me once I’m gone,” she huffed and slammed the door leading into the garage.
A few seconds later, her father poked his head into the garage and smiled. “I will miss you WHILE you are gone. We can go out when you return, sweetheart. Maybe see a movie or something. Have fun. Be safe. Oh, and do you think you might get a little thirsty?” he asked, dangling a cool bottle of water he’d just taken from the refrigerator.
She smiled, walked back and accepted the gift, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I will,” she replied, and she wheeled her bike out of the garage for her weekly bike ride. Her father trusted in her to follow safety rules while biking. They gave her the freedom to explore the canyon trails each week knowing that it would develop in her a sense of self-reliance, the ability to handle your own problems.
Today was Sunday, and she loved to ride her mountain bike along the nearby trails. She called a friend, to see if she wanted to go along, but no, she declined. “It’s too hot,” she’d complained. “Let’s do something else.”
No, she didn’t want to do “something else”. She wanted to ride today, even though it was in the 90’s. So, today would be a solo trip along the trails. Seven miles of winding paths, covered with trees, passing over rocky creeks a dozen times, and maybe some wildlife along the way. Ah, it was such a fun thing to do each week, something she looked forward to.
She looked at her bike. It still had dirt and mud on it from last week’s ride. That’s what it looked like each week. Dirty. She didn’t mind. Some girls were proud to show off a clean bike, all sparkly and shiny, with clean black tires, and chrome that mirrored one’s face upon close inspection, and pink dangly stuff hanging from the handlebars. But not Elisa. A clean bike is not a used bike. She knew that, and was proud of what she did each week out on the trails.
First, let’s check the tires. She felt the tires, squeezing them with all her strength, and they felt inflated. She sat on her seat, and looked at the tires. Did they deflate or push out when she sat on them? Nope. They’re okay.
Secondly, let’s check the brakes. She turned the bike upside-down, spun the front tire, and squeezed the left brake. The tire stopped immediately. She spun the back tire, squeezed the right brake, and it too stopped. Good, the tires are fine.
Thirdly, let’s lube the chain. She grabbed the bottle from the shelf, called White Lightning, shook it up, and took off the lid. She turned the crank, and squeezed a stream of white liquid onto the chain, careful to put it onto the chain, and not onto the floor. After a few revolutions, she was done. Capping the lube, she continued spinning the crank, and ran the shifter through all of the gears. Down-shift, and again, and again, all the way, letting the lube spread evenly across the chain, and across the spinning wheels on the dereulers in the back, the parts that forced the chain into easier or harder gears.
Fourthly, she hopped on the bike to see if the seat post was adjusted correctly. Yes, it was straight, but it was too low. She pulled the lever, and raised it a bit, lining it up with the frame of the bike. She hopped aboard, rode around the driveway for a bit. There, perfect. She was now ready to ride.
She grabbed her helmet, checked to make sure that there weren’t any spiders or bugs there. I know, you might wonder how this could happen. Well, it did sit in the garage all week, and since spiders tend to go wherever they want, well, she didn’t want to get a “spider surprise” while riding down the trail. Or, a spider bite.
Then, she put on her gloves. They were fingerless, stopping at the first knuckle, and padded on the palms to provide for a more comfortable ride. And, if she fell, then they’d be the first thing that would hit the ground, since most crashes involved a person throwing down their hands to protect themselves as they hit the ground. She’d crashed hard before, several times, and her gloves had saved her hands from any damage.
There, almost ready. Now, for a little bit of leg-stretching. She spread her legs out, setting her feet far apart, bent over and touched the ground, holding the stretch for her hamstrings and lower back. Then, she stood upright, grabbed her foot, and bent it behind herself, stretching her thighs. Finally, she leaned against a wall, feet placed far behind her, and stretched her calves. All done. Time to ride.

Part II

“I will return in awhile, with a blanket of dirt and sweat coating my skin, and a smile on my face, from doing something fun, and challenging,” Elisa spoke to no one in particular. She knew what all children knew, that playing was fun. This was like a game to her. Yes, it is exercise, a lot of exercise, as the trail is almost four miles long, from the bottom to the top, and then another four back down again. But, the ride downhill was soooooo much fun. Words can barely describe the thrill of the ride, a roller coaster of turns and dips, swoops and thrills, ready to be ridden each week by anyone with a bike.
Off she rode along the sidewalk, past the houses of her friends and school-mates, and to the corner. She turned left, and headed downhill, going toward the trailhead. That’s where a trail officially starts. This one had a special sign. It said, “Mountain Lion Habitat”. Yes, that is right. The city issues a warning to all who ride their bikes, or who are atop their horses, or who walk their dogs. This trail has wildlife, and some of that wildlife just might eat you if you’re not careful.
She stopped, took a few breaths, and read the sign for the hundredth time. Was she scared? No. She had a bell on her bike that rattled the whole time she rode. It’s there to warn wildlife that you’re coming so that they don’t get surprised. Safety was important to her. She didn’t want to injure an animal. And, she didn’t want an animal to injure her.
She heard a light buzzing sound coming from far above her, and looked up at the sky. It was so blue, a color that reminded her of the blankets you often find wrapped around little baby boys, so soft and pretty. A jet zoomed silently by, miles above her. That wasn’t it. She looked, left, and right, carefully inspecting the blue panorama that spread above her, but she had no luck. A single engine airplane drifted by somewhere nearby, but she wasn’t able to find it.
Off to the left, a homeowner had planted roses, exhibiting a dozen varieties. Purples, reds, oranges, yellows, whites, burgundies, and more, reached their leafy hands up to the heavens, hoping to find the sun’s radiance that brought energy and growth. Insects found their way to these nectar-filled delights, finding the sweetness that made flight a thrill, as well as helping to pollinate nature’s works of beauty. She wanted to walk over and smell one, but knew that a long bike-ride awaited her.
Elisa hopped onto her bike, threaded her way through the narrow gate, and pedaled past the one and only trashcan along the trail. It was already full, from a Saturday of hikers and bikers, depositing their trash here instead of littering along the trail. Nothing angered her more than to find discarded water bottles and granola bar wrappers, carelessly tossed on the ground. On some rides, she’d bring an empty backpack just so that she could do her part to help keep this ride free of litter.
The first part of the ride was rather boring, as the trail was right next to a spillway, on the right. When the rains came, the water rolled down through Marshall Canyon, and it needed somewhere to go. Next to the mountains, they had lots of little creeks that carried the water downhill. But, once these creeks ran into the outskirts of humanity, the homes, the asphalt streets, the concrete sidewalks, well, it still needed somewhere to go. So, the city planners had built this spillway, to handle all of the downward flow of water, and move it safely through the various neighborhoods. A six-foot chain link fence separated her from this spillway, about ten feet deep and just as wide across. To the left were the back yards of houses. But, these weren’t ordinary back yards. They were on the side of a hill, so the owners often terraced their space, providing steps down to the bottom, with several levels of grass, or plants, in between. Children didn’t play back there. Dogs didn’t run out their energy there. It was solely for aesthetic purposes, designed to look pretty and win awards in gardening magazines.
At the end of the concrete spillway, she had to cross the “Sands of Time”. Okay, not really those sands, but a sandy spot where the canyon had sent down its boulders and rocks. All of the large pieces had been reduced to fine grains of sand, like one might find in a riverbed or at the beach. This was a very difficult spot for bikers, as their tires tended to get bogged down in the deep sand. And the heavier the rider, the deeper he or she sank. Elisa was quite light, so she traveled across the top of the sand without too much effort.
Once out of the sand, it was a hard-dirt trail for most of the ride. Finally, the ride had begun. She was happy. To her right and left were trees. Lots of trees. Tall strong oaks, with giant knot holes, hollowed out over time, and empty. Sometimes she’d stop to look inside one, to see what lived there. Using a little flashlight to shine in there, she’d see pill bugs, or rollie-pollies, walking about on fourteen legs. And spiders, nestled silently, eight legs grabbing the silky threads that lined its lair, waiting for something to eat to wander into its sticky home. Farther up, there were eucalyptus trees, dropping their shards of bark beneath their towering heights, thin as paper, and crunchy under the rolling rubber tires. Sycamores, dropping their pointy leaves along the trail, a collector‘s delight. And, elm