What was taking so long

They weren't speeding in. The Moravian quarter of Winston-Salem was festooned hopefully with a banner and buntings to congratulate the North Carolina Women's Fireman's Bicycling Association New York to Charlotte 9/11 Remembrance Race , or other string of adjectives. The old white church was the end point for this stage. Two dozen people were there, standing. Her car was packed. She was ready to go, but she stayed.

It had the atmosphere of an 8 year old's birthday party before the pony arrives. It was going to awesome, maybe. She attached to the end of the crowd. An 8 year boy continued talking, but now looked at her; where they were coming from, when they were coming, how they were, how fast he once rode his bike and the sounds the baseball cards made in his spokes. It was getting contagious.

She didn't know why she was staying. She had seen Leif and it was a long journey back to New Jersey, through Delmarva and all. He could have done something. Taken her out to lunch, or ice cream, or a drive. He looked like he used to look hung over. He definitely looked strung out but he said it was the kids who kept him up, and he had been working hard that week. Of course it never occurred to her to call ahead to tell him she was coming, so he could plan for it maybe, or tell his wife at least. They used to hate those sort of middle class manners. Later on, when she had kids of her own, she would know better, but then she also wouldn't hit the road ever.

The boy was starting to wonder what was taking them so long. . . .