The light turned green, and we hustled across the Post Road. I worried that some Hummer demon in a big rush wouldn’t see us as we cut across the busy intersection, but today, for some reason, there weren’t too many cars on the road. We cruised through.
We passed the Wakeman Club and then the old Pequot Library, pedaling through the fanciest neighborhood in Southport. Wheeling along Southport beach, I glanced out over Long Island Sound, expecting the usual calm body of water with gentle waves lapping at the sand. Instead, I saw whitecaps slashing across the water and giant rolling swells rumbling onto the beach like thunder. “Whoa, that looks different,” I shouted toward Emma.
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’ve never seen waves like this, here.”
“It’s not raining too hard,” I yelled up to her, “I say we keep moving.” We rode on, without talking for a while, past the mansion with the giant eraser sculpture, past the overlook and Green’s Farms Academy. Heading down that long hill, we picked up some serious speed. Normally I like zooming down a hill, but this was unnervingly fast. Later, I realized we were getting a little push from behind. I felt nervous for myself and for Emma as we rounded the big turn at the bottom of the hill. It didn’t help that the beach down there is named Burying Hill.
Up and down we rolled, climbing over the interstate highway and then gliding past the huge hayfields of old Nyala Farm. We hung a left there and then pulled up at a stoplight by the Sherwood Island connector. That’s a fairly busy road, with lots of traffic coming off the highway or heading onto it. We stood, straddling our bikes, and waited. I noticed the stoplight swaying in the breeze. Actually, that breeze was more like gusts or even real wind. We waited. Still, the light stayed red.
“Is it ever going to change?” Emma asked.
“It has to change. What if a car pulled up behind us? Just be patient.” But no cars pulled up behind us.
“My sweatshirt is soaked. I just wanna get going.”
Still, the light stayed red.
I wondered if we should turn back. We were almost to Sherwood Island anyway. Instead, I said to Emma, “EJ, when we get to the part that goes over the highway, hold on tight. It’s liable to be pretty windy there.”
“If we ever get there,” she grumbled.
Finally, the light changed. We turned left. Immediately the rain intensified. Through a steady, soaking rain, we rode on. As we climbed toward the peak of the overpass, a blast of wind slammed me from my left. I swerved and wobbled on my bike, trying to keep from crashing into the guard rail. I stole a look ahead toward Emma, saw her pitch slightly, then steady herself. This was one time when her heavy old bike may have helped her. As we crested the hill and headed toward the entrance to the park, I pulled alongside Emma. “That was intense, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’ll say. I don’t think we’re gonna be hanging out long at the park,” Emma said, pointing her finger toward the beach. I followed her finger and got my first good look at the shore. The trees along the paths looked different. All of them bent toward the right, shivering in the wind. It reminded me of those video clips on the Weather Channel during hurricanes. Wait, during hurricanes? That was not a good connection.
I looked out further. The water on the sound swelled and crashed onto the shore. “Good for surfing,” I thought to myself, “…if you’re crazy enough to go out there.”
Emma and I eased to a stop and took a drink under a big oak tree near the side of the entranceway. “This is getting pretty wild.” I had to shout to be heard over the whipping wind. The tree provided little shelter, as the rain pelted us from the side. “How are you doing?” I asked, actually wondering how I was doing. Could we really ride home in this? I had my cell phone. Should I call for a ride? I pointed back toward where we’d been. “I think we should head back. It doesn’t look as bad over there.”
“Okay,” Emma sighed. “I can’t get any wetter.”
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