I could feel my face turning red. “I’m so sorry. I really thought it was an intruder.”
“That’s okay ma’am,” the male officer said. “For some women, shoes are an emergency.”
I looked at all the shoes on the floor. Except for my cycling shoes, my mom had purchased all of them and I rarely wore any of them because they were so uncomfortable. I smiled at the cops because I realized I must look like quite the priss, calling the police for an attack on my pristine shoe collection. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m such a dumbass. Sorry.”
The lady cop was looking at me like I was a fucking idiot and for a moment, I thought she was going to agree with me. Fortunately, the male cop said, “Don’t worry about it ma’am, you did the right thing.”
“Thanks again. Good night.”
I went right back to sleep and didn’t move until my alarm went off the next morning.
* * *
I almost missed the race. First, I was a bit behind schedule because it was hard for me to find a matching pair of shoes in the sea of shoes on the floor of my guest bedroom. Second, my navigation system never heard of Webster, Florida, so I had to find it by stopping at six gas stations and asking for directions.
I arrived approximately forty-five seconds before the race started and was only allowed to start because the announcer knew me and told the people at registration to give me a number and let me pay later. I only had two pins holding my race number to my jersey when the gun went off. The number was flapping around like a sail. I took off hard so that I could avoid being near any people in the first sand section. I gapped the group immediately and by the time I exited the sand, I led by thirty yards. I stood up and accelerated again to put more space between myself and the pack. I periodically looked down beneath my armpit or over my shoulder as I rode and could see that I was continuing to distance myself from the pack. After a minute, my lead had extended to over one hundred yards, so I sat down in my saddle and settled in to a hard, fast pace.
The women in the
peloton
behind me failed to organize a chase. A group of decent cyclists should always be able to overtake an individual cyclist, even if that individual cyclist is stronger, because the group can set a high pace, and rotate so that each rider spends minimal time in the wind while the cyclist they’re chasing has no reprieve. For instance, the chasing cyclists can each spend thirty seconds in the wind, then move into the draft to be shielded from the wind as the next cyclist in the group takes a thirty second pull into the wind. To increase the speed of the chase, riders may also create a clockwise or counterclockwise pace line whereby each rider spends only a few seconds in the wind. Both of these chasing techniques are cooperative efforts that are foolproof, provided the chasing riders cooperate. However, the chase often fails when a chaser or two, acting in their self-interest, disrupts this harmony. Once the chasing group starts reeling in the chase, one or two cyclists may try to jump across the shrinking gap to join the breakaway riders, rather than waiting for the entire pack to catch up in one big group. When this happens, the rest of the riders stop sharing the workload and instead accelerate to get within the draft of the person traveling across the gap. At this point, the rider or riders trying to bridge across to the breakaway no longer have any incentive to keep working since they know that, even if they catch the break, they’ll do it with the entire
peloton
in their draft. Therefore, the chasing rider “sits-up” and stops working. The result is that the
peloton
, which is now drafting off of the renegade rider, slows down as well. Each time this happens, the chasing group not only slows down, but becomes less likely to resume their harmonious chase because the riders don’t trust each other. Consequently, the breakaway rider, in this case me, is able to put more distance between herself and the group of chasers.
The combination of me feeling great and the chase behind me becoming disorganized every time it entered a section of sand allowed me to build my lead. It was clear by the third lap that only a flat tire could prevent me from winning. My luck held and I won the not-so-prestigious Roubaix seventy mile road race solo off the front. I guess I’d have to learn technique and sprinting another day.
I never tell anyone outside of cycling when I win a race because I have the impression my friends and family assume I win every race I enter. I’ve never told anyone that I win every race. However, I do tell them that I’m a top-level Florida cyclist. That, plus the fact that over the past year I have poured all of my money and time into cycling means I really can’t blame everyone for their false assumption. Since no one actually follows cycling, I have never felt obliged to correct this assumption. I do very well, but cycling is not like running, where the strongest person always wins. Cycling has teams, strategy, drafting and scary field sprints, which make it difficult to go undefeated. People know I win prize money, I just neglect to tell them it’s not always for first place and that it’s very rarely in the three digits. I’d have preferred to have a passion for something profitable, or at a minimum, not a total money pit, but it hasn’t worked out that way. At least I’m not into sailing or airplanes.
When I got home from Webster, I took a four hour nap. I’d have slept longer but my mother called to tell me I was late for dinner.
“I’m on my way.”
“You sound like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m at a red light, resting,” I said unconvincingly.
“Have you left your house yet?”
“Almost,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
I wish I could support my cycling habit by napping instead of practicing law, because I’m really good at it. Who knows how long I could have slept if she hadn’t wakened me. A weekly schedule of fifty hours of work and 350 miles of riding leaves me with the desire to treat every lull in life as an occasion for some shuteye. I often wish I could challenge the most afflicted narcoleptic to a napping duel, as I’m quite sure I’d prevail.
I was wearing the Empathy Belly when I pulled into my parents’ driveway just in case David drove by. Once the coast was clear I ditched the Empathy Belly and ran into the house with Sonny.
I wasn’t fully in the door before my mom said, “Jenna, I have a guy for you to meet.”
“I’m good,” I said.
“You don’t have to marry him, just go out with him.”
“I’m good,” I repeated.
“He’s really cute. He’s an elementary school counselor and music teacher.”
“That’s an odd combination.”
“He was a music teacher. Then he became a guidance counselor. With cutbacks, they decided to use him for both. He only teaches music a few times a week.”
“You’re a middle school guidance counselor,” I said to her. “How did you meet an elementary school guidance counselor?”
“The elementary school guidance counselors always bring the fifth graders to my school so they can see the middle school they’ll be attending the following year. Anyway, he saw your picture in my office and asked for your number. I gave it to him.”
“That’s creepy. Are you crazy?”
“I’m just helping out,” my mom said. “You’re not meeting anyone on your own.”
“I am too, just not ‘the one.’”
“Well maybe Andy is the one. You never know.”
“I sincerely doubt Andy the elementary school music teacher and guidance counselor is my soul mate. I am not exactly a music connoisseur or sensitive to the problems of others.”
My mom added a few more items to that list and then said, “And he doesn’t ride bikes. Opposites attract.”
“That’s not opposite, that’s unrelated. Where does he live?”
“Not sure, but he works in the Pinellas County School system, so probably somewhere in Clearwater or St. Petersburg.”
“Strike two. That’s an hour away, completely out of my dating jurisdiction. I wouldn’t date George Clooney in Pinellas County let alone Mr. Holland’s Opus.”
“I’m sure Andy will drive.”
“Not interested,” I said emphatically.
“Jenna,” my dad said, “just go for it, what else do you have to do?”
“Work, ride my bike, sleep, hang out with my friends. I do stuff.”
“Just go out with him. He’s got balls, it takes balls to ask a girl out.”
“He asked my mother out,” I pointed out.
“He asked you out via Mom,” Dad responded.
“Mom, what picture do you have up in your office? Last time I was there you had my high school picture up. He might be a pedophile. He’s got the perfect job for it.”
“He’s not a pedophile, and I update your pictures quarterly. I have the picture of you at John and Julie’s wedding up and you look beautiful.”
* * *
Andy called me on Tuesday, but I didn’t answer the phone. I had become adept at ignoring the phone since my date with Quinton, who still called me every three days to see if I’d changed my mind. Andy left a voice mail.
“Hi, Jenna. This is Andy, I work with your mom. Give me a call when you get a chance.” He left his number.
This would never work out because his area code indicated that he lived too far away to be datable.
Still, I called him back. Not because I’m a dutiful daughter, but because I didn’t want to hear about it again next Sunday night, and the Sunday after that. We made plans to meet on Thursday for dinner. There was no small talk and I was convinced Andy had no personality based on my thirty second phone conversation. On the plus side, I scheduled dinner for 8:30 p.m. so that I didn’t have to cut my bike ride short.
Andy rang the doorbell promptly at 8:30. I had just emerged from the shower. I looked through the peephole. Not an attractive man. He wasn’t exactly ugly, but he was a mouth breather and a little on the heavy side. Not fat, but not fit or athletic either. I was sure he’d find a wonderful lady some day, just not me.
I called to him to come in and sit on the couch, because I wasn’t ready yet. He obeyed and I started getting ready. Sonny was howling and humping him while I tried to pick out something ugly to wear so that he would be equally uninterested in me. I had already decided not to blow dry my hair, but that was out of laziness. I needed something ugly to wear to match my unkempt hair. As I stared at my closet, a bunch of maternity wear stared back at me. Perfect!
I walked out. Andy was shocked by his first sight of me but trying to act natural. “Hi, Jenna. Ready?”
Gotta love a guy who ignores the elephant in the room. “Sure, I’m starving. Eating for two you know.”
No response. Clearly he wasn’t going to officially acknowledge my unexpected pregnancy.
We went to a local tapas bar with great sangria. I sat down and ordered a pitcher. Andy stared at me disapprovingly, but refrained from mentioning the pregnancy.
“So,” I said, “how’s elementary school these days? It’s been a while for me.”
“I like it. The kids are sweet and I get to teach music and help advise them when they’re troubled.”
“What sort of problems do they have?”
“Peeing their pants, bullies, dealing with divorce, some of them still breast-feed coming into kindergarten.”
“That’s funny. I’ll totally do that with this kid,” I said.
“Really?” he asked nervously. Andy had not lost the deer-in-headlights look since spotting my belly.
“No,” I responded. I was afraid the conversation would switch to pregnancy details, so I moved the topic back to his interests. “So,” I said, “what kind of music do you teach?”
“A few things. I teach violin and chorus, and I play the piano while they sing.”
“Do you know ‘Chopsticks’?”
“Yes.”
“Me too, but only the du dununu du dununu part. I don’t know the dunt dunt dunt, dununununu part.”
“I know them both, but there are no words so I don’t play that for them.”
“Oh yeah. Do you teach marching too?”
“No, that’s high school band,” Andy explained.
And we were out of conversation. We sat there awkwardly until Andy said. “What do you want to order? We can share a few tapas dishes.”
“Okay.”
We both looked at the menu and it was the least awkward moment of the night.
While we read the menu, Sarah Smith walked over to our table. Thank God I’d worn the Empathy Belly. When I saw Sarah at the office, we exchanged pleasantries. Outside of work, Sarah and I were evidently best friends. She screeched, “Hi Jenna! What are you doing here, sexy? Is this yo baby daddy?”
“No, this is Andy,” I replied calmly.
Sarah hovered over Andy and stuck her huge boobs in his face, then leaned down and kissed him on the lips, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Sorry Charlie, I do hugs and kisses, not handshakes.”
“Um, actually, it’s Andy,” he responded, seemingly unaware of the phrase “sorry Charlie.”
“I know,” Sarah said as she pulled up a chair to our table.
I guessed she was staying. In an effort to avoid this, I said, “Who are you here with?”
“My friends Sarah and Sarah. We’ve been friends for thirty years. All three of us are named Sarah. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Yes, it’s such a rare name,” I offered helpfully.
Sarah turned to Andy and said, “This one’s a smartass huh,” as she grabbed his thigh.
He shot straight up. “Uh. Yeah or no, I don’t know, I mean, I just met her.”
Sarah moved her other hand to his thigh and said, “You mean, you guys aren’t together?”
“No,” we said in unison.
“We just met,” I added.
The waitress came by and we ordered. Sarah ordered something extra for the table. I was fine with a third wheel, but did it have to be Sarah? I wished I could trade her for one of the other Sarahs. Then again, as friends of Sarah Smith, I was sure they had their own problems.
After the waitress left, Sarah took over the conversation, presumably trying to win Andy over with her charm. She started telling a story about the death of her goldfish, Fatty. Apparently Fatty was fat and was her favorite goldfish. It was really heartbreaking, but I managed to hold it together.
Sarah leaned into Andy to be comforted. Andy looked like he was in hell, which was not far off the mark. A pregnant lady and a sixty-year-old is not an ideal ménage à trois.