At five forty-five, we rode into the parking lot, where a good crowd had assembled. MMA was joined by “Muscles,” who made a beeline toward me. I rode directly into the ladies’ room to avoid him since a year of rejecting his advances has done nothing to curtail his enthusiasm for asking me out and turning everything I say into a sexual charged double entendre that makes absolutely no sense. “Muscles” a.k.a. “Steroids” a.k.a. “Festina,” is on steroids and proud of it. He has only one cycling kit, a Festina jersey and shorts modeled after the 1998 Festina cycling team. In 1998, one of Festina’s team cars was caught at a border crossing with over 400 pills in it just three days before the start of the Tour de France. The Festina team was not allowed to start the 1998 Tour. Three years later, the team disbanded. Nevertheless, Muscles is a loyal fan, wearing the kit daily and rarely washing it. After each ride, he changes out of his Festina outfit and into his personalized T-shirt, the front and back of which are adorned with photographs of himself posing in various body building stances wearing nothing but a banana hammock. Once the coast was clear, I came out of the bathroom, refilled my water bottles and rode to where the riders were congregating.
Danny and I named Muscles and MMA, as we name everyone on the ride. Mostly because we’re assholes and the names are apt, but also because we don’t know their real names. I started riding with the St. Pete training ride with Danny about a year ago and being from Tampa, neither of us knew anyone on the ride. After many Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday encounters, we gradually met everyone on the ride in brief conversations during the warm-ups and cool-downs. Soon enough, we knew what everyone did for a living and all of their best jokes, but still not their names. Since it’s awkward to ask someone their name after you’ve known them for a year, neither of us ever bothered. Plus, we really don’t need their names. If we want to talk to someone, we’ll ride up next to them and start talking. The only reason we need their names is to talk about them behind their backs to each other.
In addition to Muscles and MMA, there’s “Old School,” whose bike and kits are all from the 1960s; “Ivan Drago,” who looks like Rocky’s nemesis from Rocky IV; “Sunscreen,” who puts zinc oxide on his entire body so that he looks painted white; “OCD,” whose bike, and every component on it, are meticulously cleaned before every ride; “B.O.” who stinks so much that you can’t ride within three bike lengths of him without gagging; “Ned Flanders,” who looks like Ned Flanders from
The Simpsons
; “Slobber,” who spits at you as he talks; “Sprinkler,” who sprays a constant stream of sweat as he rides, regardless of the temperature; “Bra,” who is a guy, but wears a skin-tight triathlon midriff bearing shirt; “Sandspur,” who freaks out when anyone cuts through the grass to refill their water because he insists we’ll get sandspurs in our tires and get a flat; “Tighty Whity,” who wears underwear under his cycling shorts; and “Junk Miles,” one of many cycling personal trainers on the ride. I met Junk Miles when he told me that my training plan of riding from Tampa to St. Petersburg and back three times a week is nothing but junk miles, and that I’d be much faster if I paid him to coach me.
My plan for the ride was the same as it has been for the past few months: to grow some balls and learn how to mix it up in the sprint. I was a month away from my professional cycling debut and if I wasn’t in a breakaway off the front at the time of the sprint, I regularly floated to the back of the
peloton
to avoid the crash that seemed sure to happen every time the pack of riders accelerated to between thirty-five to forty miles per hour within inches of each other. Sometimes the crash happened, but usually I just placed last in a clean sprint, not only behind the good sprinters, but behind the pack fodder that barely managed to stay in the
peloton
during the ride.
The first sprint was just after a drawbridge. Jesus attacked up the hill as I knew he would, and I immediately jumped on his wheel. He jacked the pace up to thirty miles per hour on the incline and sped up to forty-five miles per hour on the descent. I stayed on his wheel up to the finish line and glanced behind me. No one else was in our draft; they were charging for us fifty yards back. Jesus sat up just before the sign that is the finish line and I sprinted past him with a smile on my face, letting him know that I understand that he’s the real sprint winner.
Cycling has unwritten etiquette for group rides and races. It is not cool to sit on someone’s wheel for a mile, let them do all the work distancing the pack, then outsprint them when they’re tired. It is okay if the person is on the front burying themselves with the understanding that they’re leading out the sprint for the entire pack; in that case everyone can sprint. However, if it’s just you and another guy on a group ride, and the other guy did all the work, it is poor etiquette to sprint against him. However, if the same situation presents itself in a race, you can sprint against the other person who was dumb enough to lead out the last mile for you.
The two sprints on the way back to St. Pete did not go as well. Not surprisingly, my sprinting skills did not miraculously develop overnight, and I had a hard time staying towards the front of the pack as it wound its way on flat fast roads around tight corners to the second and third sprint points. I started the sprint in the pack, but drifted far to the left so I’d have an out in the event of a crash. The problem was that the outskirts of the
peloton
were windier than within the pack, where there’s a draft on all sides. I came in a solid last place.
Aside from my horrendous sprint, I rode superbly. My training was really beginning to pay off and I could tell I was stronger than I had ever been. However, no matter how strong I was, a professional team wouldn’t want me if they saw my name at the bottom of the standings every single time a race ended in a sprint finish, which was at least eighty percent of the time.
On the way home, I asked Travis, Jesus and Danny if there was an easy trick to learn to sprint.
Jesus said, “Let’s take her out to a field and play bumper bikes with her. Once she learns to fall she’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want to learn to fall, I want to learn to sprint. Falls are going to happen and they’re going to suck no matter how much I train myself to enjoy crashing. I’d like to sprint well without worrying about crashing and I’d like to pick it up immediately, like when the Karate Kid learned karate by painting a fence and Rocky Balboa learned to box by catching a greasy fast chicken. Can’t I just do something slightly challenging and unrelated to cycling to learn to sprint, like watching television on my head or eating spaghetti through a straw?”
Danny gave me a deadpan look and said, “I think being the bitch in a gang bang is good for sprinting in cycling. Wanna give it a shot?”
“Sure Danny. You’re last,” I replied.
“Fine with me,” he said, “as long as I’m in the rotation.”
“Shut up, there will be no gang banging. I’m serious.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Danny said.“Just relax.”
Eighty-six miles and five hours after leaving my house, I arrived home. John, Julie and Jason were in the backyard jumping on the trampoline with the dogs, our new favorite activity. They put all of their dogs on the trampoline and bounced them in the air. John and Julie have four dogs: a rat-poo, which is a rat terrier mixed with a toy poodle, a yorkie poo, a poogle and my favorite, a shih-tzu poo. Their names are Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde. Combined, their four dogs still weigh less than Sonny’s sixty pounds. That’s why it’s all the more embarrassing when their dogs enjoy playing on the trampoline and mine cries and jumps off in terror.
“Hey, Jenna.” John said, “I still can’t believe you bought a trampoline. I’m really enjoying your regression.”
“Thanks. I agree it was a brilliant purchase. You guys want to grab dinner?”
“Sure,” Julie said.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s go to St. Pete, there’s a great place for crab legs.” I wanted to go to St. Pete to avoid another pregnancy incident like the ones I’d had with Sarah and Ryan. John and Jason are obsessed with crab legs, so the Crab Shack seemed like the best carrot to get them across the bridge to St. Petersburg.
* * *
The Crab Shack was located a mile past the end of the Gandy Bridge connecting Tampa and St. Petersburg. In the mile between the bridge and the restaurant, cars that looked like they were tailgating lined the highway along both sides of the road. Technically, these people were on “the beach.” However, if they drove twenty more minutes, they would be treated to a real beach instead of the Redneck Riviera, which was essentially three inches of sand on either side of a six lane highway.
While we were on a bench at the restaurant waiting to be seated, a man in baggy jeans, white T-shirt, diamond earrings, chain necklace and a sleeve of tattoos sat next to me. I immediately pulled my purse closer and away from the thug. Jason, on the other hand, walked up to him and said, “Hey man, where’d you get that fade done up at?” My head almost fell off my neck as I turned around.
The thug said, “Huh?”
Jason repeated himself, “Fuck’n, where’d you get that fade done up at n’shit?”
“Fade Masters,” tattoo man grunted.
“That’s where I go,” Jason said. “Who do you see?”
It turned out that Jason and the thug both got their haircuts, or “fades,” done up on Nebraska Avenue by Big Tony. I think Jason might have the most street cred of his entire confirmation class at synagogue.
In hindsight, all-you-can-eat crab legs for $9.99 was not a good idea. The inevitable gastrointestinal distress followed like clockwork. I was unable to move further than seven inches from my toilet the next morning when Sarah called.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Home shitting mud. You?”
“What?” Sarah said.
“I won’t be in today. What do you need?” I asked.
“I just wanted to tell you that I told Tony you’d meet him tonight.”
“Sarah, I can’t meet him tonight, I’m ill.”
“Fine, tomorrow night?”
“I can’t, I’m going away for a week for work and I need to get packed, set up dog care and a bunch of other things. Can I meet him when I get back next week?”
“Okay, but you have to go out with him. You’ll thank me, trust me.”
“Yes, Sarah, I’m excited to meet Tony. I can’t wait until next week.”
That bought me a week, but I didn’t see any way out of the Tony date.
I actually did have depositions scheduled throughout the week. Not only that, in Alabama. I thought about using the “I’m giving birth in two weeks” excuse to get out of them, but I preferred to get out of town and avoid my date with Sarah’s spawn. The trip also provided an opportunity to stay in a beautiful beach community just outside of Mobile.
The depositions were for the Champions Bar case, which involved nine parties: three defendants and six plaintiffs. Due to scheduling conflicts, the depositions had been scheduled over eight months ago, with the middle of June being the first week available for all of the lawyers involved. Consequently, I had completely forgotten about the depositions until my secretary asked me if I preferred a flight Sunday night or early Monday morning.
As I do whenever I travel, I checked the cycling schedule to see if I could combine my trip with a race. The two races I found were a regional race in Cuba, Alabama, which is a real place, and a professional race in Bristol, Tennessee. The race in Cuba was scheduled for the weekend after the depositions, so there was no scheduling conflict. Nevertheless, it wasn’t my preference because according to the Alabama race results for the season, Southern Belles didn’t race. In the past four Alabama women’s races, only four women had competed in the CAT 1, 2, 3 combined categories. The Bristol race was a four-day professional women’s stage race run from Thursday through Sunday. The down side of Bristol was that it was ten hours away and conflicted with the depositions; on the up side it would give me a preview of my professional career and conflicted with the depositions. If I could find a way to skip some of the depositions, Bristol was my plan. I had my secretary schedule my trip from Sunday evening through the following Monday. Oddly, she didn’t ask why I wanted to stay in the shit-kicking buckle of the Bible Belt for an additional three days.
The only question remaining before take-off was whether to pack and pay for my good bike to travel, or to take my travel bike. Bringing my good road bike and time trial bike to Alabama would cost $100 for the bikes each way. They would also be a pain in the ass to disassemble and reassemble before each flight. Finally, the bike box in which my road bike would travel was huge and I’d have to rent a van to haul it around. My travel bike, called a Bike Friday, was the alternative. I’d purchased it so I wouldn’t have to pack my bike, or worse, miss a day of riding, during work-related trips. The Bike Friday had twenty-inch wheels, handlebars that part in half and other unique features that enabled it to fit into a normal suitcase and travel for free. It was also foldable and easy to assemble.
I had never ridden the travel bike other than for solitary riding while traveling for work. While it was a decent road bike, the frame wasn’t nearly as light, nor the components as responsive as those on my carbon road bike. After much debate, I decided that I would race the Bike Friday since it was cheaper and more convenient. Additionally, if I competed in the local Cuba race, I’d still be able to wipe the floor with a foldable bike. If I raced with the pros, I would surely be noticed on the miniature foldable bike.
The next question was whether to wear or check the Empathy Belly. I preferred to check it, but I wore it because I was paranoid that I’d run into a colleague at the airport un-pregnant, a real concern considering the frequency with which lawyers in our firm traveled throughout the Southeast. This would be my first trip traveling with the Belly. The novelty of the Belly wore off about twelve minutes after I put it on. It was tight, heavy, hot, and kicked me at regular intervals. On the plus side, there wasn’t a kid in it.