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

on she pedaled, up the hill. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but the words mattered.
“That was a polite group,” she thought, as she made her way up the hill, by herself, yet not alone. There were critters all about, and she was still hoping to see a deer.
Hoping.

Part V

Elisa arrived at the golf course, and took a break. It skirted the trail, and gave riders a minute to ride on a concrete pathway, though watching for flying golf balls was a good idea. She’d never been hit by one, but had heard quite a few crashing into the dense foliage to her right, or bouncing along the fairway to her left. It would hurt to get plunked by one of these little spheres.
Off her bike, she sat on the ground for a few moments. Her water bottle held relief from the dehydrating heat. Her parched throat appreciated the refreshment. She drank a few swallows, then returned it to its holder behind her seat, knowing that she would need more of it on the trail since she was only halfway up the trail. Several miles of climbing still lay ahead of her and she’d surely want something to drink later.
Off to the left, a trio of golfers, wearing mismatched shorts and polo shirts, were preparing to tee off. Three fathers, or husbands, or friends, laughing and enjoying the sunshine and exercise. They drove carts from hole to hole, walking short distances to hit the golf ball before re-entering the cart to move to the next hole. Their conversation muffled by the distance, Elisa wondered what they talked about, and turned her attention elsewhere as she rested.
A spider joined her, tiny, but with fangs, climbing up her leg. She brushed it off her shorts and stood up. She wasn’t afraid of spiders, or snakes, or dogs, or much of anything. But, she didn’t want another spider bite. Two weeks ago, she’d had four bites, two on each leg. They itched, like mosquito bites. But, unlike mosquito bites that go away in a day, the itching on her legs lasted for a week. She’d probably disturbed and squashed two spiders while organizing a cabinet full of pots and pans, and they’d retaliated by sinking their fangs into her thighs. Ah, something to remember them by.
Back onto her bike she went and continued her ride. “Bye-bye spider,” she called as she left the golf course and returned to the trail.
The trail was primarily a slight uphill rise, but there were short stretches of steep climbs, where the climb was a strain on the leg muscles. She always tried to make it up these without stopping, playing a game in which you try to beat the hill. You win by making it to the top. She won most of the time.
One steep part was always slick, as the water run-off from the nearby golf course made part of the trail a slippery clay mess. And, it was made worse as the water tore away the soil that lay beside the roots of a nearby tree, leaving an almost impossible obstacle to ride over. They were so slick. She almost made it up this part, but failed just at the last second, as her tire spun on the slick root, and she had to set her feet on the ground to keep from falling over.
“I lost to a root. A root,” she said, annoyed. “Grrr!” She had it in the perfect gear, and gave it all she could, but sometimes you just can’t win.
Onward she rode, getting warmer and warmer in the rising heat.
She stopped beside a creek, dismounting, and knelt at its edge. As hot as it was, she had planned for such a stop, bringing a wash rag. The water flowed by slowly, making its way downhill. Somewhere up above, it had once been snow, and still retained its iciness. Ahhh! She dipped the rag into the water, squeezed cool drops onto her head, and then onto her shoulders and back. Shivers traveled up her spine and across her arms as her body expressed its appreciation for this dousing. This would keep her cool on the ride. It’s a secret to avoiding overheating she’d learned from her dad.
Onward she rode, enjoying the climb, getting closer and closer to the end of the trail. Still, she didn’t see any deer.
Through the tunnel she went with a loud “HELLOOOOO,” as she cascaded through one end and out the other. Between the stumps, along the straightaway, and around the tree. Careful at this spot, for she’d ridden with a friend once who had crashed here. It was slick, as a creek went right across the trail, a small one, but dangerous to riders who didn’t beware.
She heard voices up ahead, at the horse corrals. Who was there? What were they doing? She paused a moment to catch her breath, and noticed that a girl her age was learning to ride a horse. She decided to go watch, and made her way up the trail to the riding station. She’d passed by many times, but today she wanted to see what it was like. She’d never ridden a horse before, and she wanted to know how it was done.
In the center of the ring was a lady with long blond hair, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. She wore blue jeans, a white button-up shirt, and boots, the kind with which you ride horses. “Good job,” she’d say to the little girl who sat atop the horse. “Back straight. Knees bent. Good.”
Perched atop a horse was a ten year-old girl learning to ride a horse. Now, when the word “ride” is used, what might come to your mind is how to sit in a saddle, or how to place your feet in the stirrups. But, no. This is not what the word means. Underneath your saddle is a living, thinking, very large creature who doesn’t understand our words. What it understands is where we touch it and how much pressure we apply to that area. So, learning to “ride” a horse means learning how to communicate with that horse so that it does what you want it to do.
Short black hair dangled behind a riding helmet, the kind you might use to ride a bike, or a skateboard, or a horse. Safety was important to this little girl, and her parents, and her instructor. A fall from this height might damage the brain, and so, each young rider was required to wear a protective helmet just in case.
She trotted slowly around the edge of the arena. “Eyes up.” Simple directions were given, and repeated, so that the rider might improve her riding stance. “Hands forward. Elbows bent. Good.”
She’d ride around the arena, stop the horse with a pull of both hands, and then back up three steps by leaning back and pulling hard on the reins. The horse knew the difference between the command to Stop and the command to Back Up, but the girl sitting atop had to learn how to strongly communicate which one was needed at the time.
Elisa envied that girl, wishing that it was she who was sitting atop the horse. Maybe she would tell her father about it tonight. And, maybe he’d see the excitement in her eyes. She was a good girl. She did her homework. She helped around the house. She kept her room clean. Well, sort of...


 

Part VI

After watching the girl turn in a circle by pulling on one rein, Elisa decided to leave the horse rider and continue her own ride, on a bike. She took a few swigs of water from her bottle, letting each mouthful swirl around before gulping them down into her belly. “That hit the spot,” she spoke aloud, as she replaced the bottle in its holder, just behind the seat post.
At this point, she had a choice. “Which path should I take?” she pondered. The one to the left with lots of dips, down and up, twisting and turning, and crossing a creek five times? Or, the one to go right, with a long steady climb, easier and more direct. She chose to go up the right side, ten minutes of steady climbing with no break, no rest, no flats to catch your breath, no downhills to rest tired muscles.
Once she reached the top of this climb, she was exhausted, and rode over to a shady spot to rest. Her breath came in large gulps, her heart beating ever so fast. Slow, deep breaths helped her relax, and slowed her laboring chest. Within a minute, she was calm, and could focus on what surrounded her. Off in the distance, she could see the light brown trails zig-zagging up the side of the mountain. Lots of trails, for hikers, or bikers. A black crow cawed in a nearby tree, calling to its mate, or just saying hello to the other birds in the area. A light breeze rustled the tree above her, moving leaf against leaf, with the friction creating a sonnet for her enjoyment. Greens, red, browns, and yellows dominated the landscape.
Her eyes settled on the trail that she’d just climbed aboard her bike. Trees formed a canopy overhead, so that the rider, or walker, was protected from the sun, and the rain. It was well worn, about three feet wide, and she wondered who had first walked that route. And, who followed that hiker, adding their feet to the path, crushing grass, and making a dirt trail along the way for others to follow. How long ago? Was it here before the nearby homes, or did their inhabitants make the trail? It was like the old question about the chicken and the egg, but with a twist. Which came first, the houses or the trails?
The next leg of the ride was a five-minute exposed climb, with no trees to provide shade in the hot, hot afternoon. This is where the sweat truly pours down the face, as the skin tries to fight the drying effects of the sun’s rays. Off she rode, exposed, and wanting to get farther up the path.
Then, the jump. Yes, a short downhill ride and a jump from a tree root. If you built up your speed, you could catch some air on this part of the ride as you flew down into the leaf-covered part of the trail. A quick peek, to make sure that no horses or walkers were in the path. Then pedal as fast as you can go. Coast for two seconds. One. Two. Get ready to pull up on the handlebars and fling your body skyward. JUMP! “Woohoo!” she yelled. It was a little reward for making the climb, one she was happy to make.
Two minutes later, she reached the end of the trail. Well, it’s not exactly the “end”, as the Marshall Canyon Trail meets up with another trail, and keeps going for