Flashback Friday: Mantra, by Gabrielle Kaasa

Photo Courtesy of Damara Pennington

Ellen barreled down the singletrack on her new mountain bike, a cloud of dust and anxiety quickly forming around her and clouding her vision of the majestic mountains on the horizon.

Barron had convinced her this would be a fun trip, that she would love mountain biking, and that it would be a great vacation. They could leave the stressful year
behind them- the 80 hour weeks, the new investors, the app launch, the IPO, the wedding- the goddamn wedding most of all- and just relax.

“You’ve got to relax,” Barron was always saying. “Slow down. Sit with your feelings. Om. Ommmmmmmm,” he would say, fingers pressed together, head thrown back in his own special version of rich white boy Buddha.

And so she tried. “Om. Om. Ommmmm,” she said to herself when she was particularly stressed. “Om, goddamn it. Om.” This was her mantra.

Now she was flying down a dirt path, out of control, at 25 miles an hour, at once terrified and exhilarated.

“FUCKFUCKFUCK!” This was her new mantra.

It could have easily been her mantra the past five years. She signed on to work for LoveTrack as its second employee- Barron, the founder, was number one. They took his idea- mapping all the singletrack trails in the US, and then combining those maps with social media to help mountain bikers find a friend- or potential lover- riding their local tracks. It was like Active.com met eHarmony and joined CrossFit. LoveTrack developed a cult following, then mushroomed into a muscular, if dirty, player in the romance and fitness arena. At Ellen’s insistence, they hired developers, got an iPhone app, and exploded. Now they were rich at thirty-four, engaged, and in love. In love?

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

Ellen wanted to close her eyes, ignore the certain disaster that awaited her at the next turn of the trail, but she just couldn’t take her eyes off the developing trainwreck. She’d been letting life happen to her for the last five years, why not let it continue to its logical conclusion, she thought. She’d worked harder, created more value, and made more money than she’d ever imagined. And for her trouble, she got to be lectured on meditating, dragged mountain biking, and led along to the altar by Barron, she thought bitterly.

She should be happy someone like him loved someone like her, she heard the voice in her head saying. It sounded suspiciously like her mother. She wasn’t exactly a beauty queen- good thing she’d found someone that loved her mind, or at least wanted to use her for it. She ought to ride that train as long as she could, get a good prenup, a great accountant, and an even better lawyer. Turn a deaf ear to the rumors about Barron’s conferences in L.A., the whispers about the pretty new admin assistant, the drunken admission from his best friend, Jim, that she just wasn’t Barron’s type at all- “You can READ, Ellen. What are you doing with him?” Wait. Wed. Weep. Then win.

If she made it that long without breaking all her damn limbs, she thought, bumping down the track.

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

She was on this trip to please Barron, so he’d shut up about her being a nerd chained to a desk, so he’d stop dropping not so subtle hints about her pasty complexion and generous thighs. She would never be a tan hardbody, but she thought this might placate him until the wedding. She just wanted him to shut up. Shut the fuck up.

So she went. She got a mountain bike, got a quick lesson on brakes and gears from Jim, a seasoned biker, got comfortable with the idea she had no fucking clue what she was doing but would fake it for a weekend- just like the wedding. Barron insisted she get clipless bike shoes, even though she was convinced she would fall over before they got a quarter of a mile down the road. Again, she called on Jim, who forced her to stand in the door of her office, braced in the doorway, clipping and unclipping, until she got the hang of it. And here she was, barreling down the singletrack, ahead of Barron, as he insisted, so he could keep an eye on her, just in case.

“Just in case of what?” she wondered. “In case I crash my fat ass, so he can be the first to see it?” She sighed. It was probably going to happen, so might as well give him a good–

FUCKFUCKFUCK!

Ellen’s body reacted before her mind registered. She had jerked to the side, braked, and unclipped before she realized that she’d almost gone over the edge of the mountain. She didn’t even know it was there. There was no sign!

Except the one up by the road that said the trail was closed.

But Barron had said it was alright. Barron said he knew this track like the back of his hand. He’d ridden it thousands of times before. It was perfectly safe, he said. It was perfectly safe for a seasoned rider. Perfectly safe for someone who knew what to expect. Perfectly safe for Barron to watch her crash her fat ass right over the side of the mountain.

She looked up the trail to see a cloud barreling down the trail.

Barron.

She saw it in his eyes.

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

Those eyes were still staring at her as he forgot to jerk to the shoulder, brake, or unclip, and as he went over the side.

FUCK?!?

FUCK!

Heh. FUCK.