Echoes on the Trail

By Huina Zheng

While cycling through Dafu Mountain Park, a girl sped past me. Her ponytail bounced with each pedal stroke, reminding me of my elder sister when we were kids. The soft squeak of her brakes echoed the sound of my sister’s old Phoenix bike—its worn pads always screeched in protest. As she passed, she glanced sideways, and I was pulled back to elementary school: my sister always rode ahead, but would glance back to check if I was keeping up, her lips curled into a smug smile. “Hurry up, we’re gonna be late!”

At every uphill, she would stop, breath heavy, usually by the crooked-neck tree, and we’d push our bikes together. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing on the pavement. We were young then, and even the daily bike ride to school held joy.

I pulled out my phone and opened our WeChat thread. The last message was from half a year ago—she had sent “Happy Spring Festival,” and I replied, “You too.” Her profile photo, edited to look like she was in her twenties, hid the fact that she’s already 42. I suspect it was taken by her boyfriend—a married man who brings her flowers daily, yet explodes in anger when they disagree. I stared at the screen. Typed “Went biking today, thought of you.” Deleted it. Tried “How have you been lately?” Deleted that too. In the end, I sent nothing.

Our last real conversation was when she called to borrow money for her daughter’s tuition. I yelled at her for being a homewrecker; we fought again. Still, I wired her 8,000 yuan, knowing she wouldn’t pay it back—just like before. I sighed and kept pedaling. With each push, I heard her voice: “Catch up with me!”

We barely see each other now—just the occasional call. After middle school, she drifted between jobs and late nights out. I focused on school and eventually left for university. As a teen, I joined Mom in scolding her—too playful, bad taste in men, “changes boyfriends more than clothes.” She called me a nerd in ugly uniforms, forehead full of acne.

At the base of a hill, I hesitated. Should I get off and push, or ride all the way up? When we were kids, she’d stop, panting, “Let’s push.” I gripped the handlebars and pedaled hard. My thighs burned, but I didn’t stop. At the top, the only sound was wind in the trees.

Then I realized—her bike bell had long since rung out, somewhere down another road.

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