“Oh you poor baby,” Julie blurts. “You didn’t realize that giving up cigarettes was like a death. You needed support. You needed time.”

Susan looks at her with a mixture of disbelieve and awe. She even cocks her head to the side like a bird. Julie wonders if she said too much. She sits back and recaptures a receptive attitude.

“I kept working out, but I also kept giving in to late-night urges for quantities of fatty and salty snacks. I just couldn’t seem to stop. Every morning was a new vow and every evening was another binge. And Gregory got fat along with me. He’d always been more sedentary than active, inclined to sit in front of the TV either watching or playing, and he began to get wider. I suspected Greg wore the fat to get back at his father, and I knew from personal experience that there was nothing a mother could say on the subject that would be effective, so I didn’t talk to him about his weight. I worried, though, and I bought a lot of carrots and cucumbers.

“He started getting better when he was 13 and was quite an altered child by 15. He improved once he got old enough to have more power over himself; once he understood it was up to him to make a person of himself he took to the job with a vengeance. It was almost as if he wanted to get back at Jack by being the better man, but Gregory began to sculpt his own personality. As he improved and received returns for improving, his rate of improvement increased. Soon he wasn’t eating as much.

“His awakening was infectious. Before long I was eating less too. At first I overate to counterbalance him; whenever he was ill and lost his appetite I tended to eat more myself, as if we’d be okay if as a twosome we consumed the usual amount. When Gregory ate less without being ill, at first I reacted out of habit. But I settled down after a short time. Greg’s example showed me that it was simply unnecessary to overeat.

“He slimmed down fast. Not only did he have the benefit of youth and increasing height, but he had the passion of a born-again. His middle-aged mother kept exercising regularly and eating too much but less, so she slowly got smaller and firmer.” Susan smiles now, as she always does when she notes Greg’s improvement, and she looks toward the adjacent room, from which she can hear the sounds of social pleasure. She laughs a little at her videogame-addicted son, obviously enjoying a deck of cards and good company.

The next day everyone rides slowly at first, as if they are pacing themselves for the climb ahead. Even so, Susan soon falls behind the others. Lost in her own thoughts, it’s awhile before she realizes that she can see at least half a mile ahead, and the sight contains no cyclists.

She keeps pedaling but she pays attention. Within a few kilometers she concludes that she’s lost and she pulls over to consult the route description. She’s sorry she didn’t take one of the maps.

She has to bear down on her memory to recall the route she’s just traveled. She soon satisfies herself with dissatisfaction. She has to backtrack about five kilometers.

That wouldn’t be so bad, except she thinks she came downhill before the last turn. She prepares herself for a climb.

Getting lost may have been her biggest fear about this trip. She’s a ready worrier, quick to envision calamity. But as usual her fear realized is less than her fear imagined. She settles into pedaling.

She passes a bear warning sign. They are placed at irregular intervals on these roads, and they advise the traveler to stay in the vehicle. There’s not much protection on a bicycle, she thinks. Some of the women in the group have expressed bear anxiety, but Susan didn’t go there till now. She tries to calm her what-if thoughts by reminding herself that it’s the cute little ground squirrel, popping up and startling cyclists, that sends most folks to the hospital around here. Then she hears panting.

She thinks it has to be herself. She’s climbing the last stretch back to her wrong turn, and she’s breathing hard. But she can’t maintain that theory, not after she quiets her own respiration and the sounds continue. Behind her. Something else is climbing the hill, and she has no reason to believe it’s human.

She checks her side-view mirror. Nothing. The noise is more from the right. She turns her head that way briefly.

It isn’t a bear. It’s a serious-looking dog-type animal. It does not look friendly.

She shriek-gasps, and pedals harder. Maybe the animal doesn’t like the sound she makes, but it peels away and down the slope to the right. Susan’s relief is immense. Maintaining her increased speed, she finds the route and soon arrives at the lunch spot.