* * *
On Wednesday, I met up with Paul, the guy from the Dubliner who could quote
Tommy Boy
. We met up to ride around the Island. Paul’s bike was an eight-speed steel Peugeot that was at least ten years old. I had been concerned that he would show up wearing an imitation Tour de France Yellow Jersey riding on a hybrid bike with goofy clip-on aerobars, so I was relieved when he showed up looking like a more seasoned cyclist than I. Paul was very comfortable on the bike and had no problem holding a conversation over the two-hour easy ride. In fact, he kept the pace a little higher than I would have on an easy off-season spin.
The goal during the off-season is to put in a shitload of base miles every day. Base miles are easy miles, usually at a high cadence and low intensity; a conversational pace using mostly easy gearing. Most professional cyclists ride a minimum of four hours and up to eight hours each day of the off-season. I do this on the weekends, but during the week, because of my awesome job, I can only ride two hours per day given the restricted daylight during this time of year. In addition to these two-hour rides, I run and lift weights during the off-season, but only with my legs. In cycling, the upper body is strictly for breathing and there is no need to bulk up.
During the ride, Paul and I talked about cycling, work and family. He was not particularly funny in that he didn’t make me laugh, but he seemed to have a decent sense of humor nonetheless. Paul rode with me back to my house, then rode his bike home to his apartment. I thought about inviting him in and ending my increasingly lengthy sexual drought. I had a bike light I could have loaned Paul so that he could ride home in the dark. However, I aborted those plans when Paul leaned in for a kiss, then veered to my cheek. I guess the rumor about wholesome Minnesota boys was true.
The next day, Paul called me and invited me to go out Friday night for dinner at eight. I planned to do a double-century ride in Gainesville the next morning, so I preferred to slam beers at happy hour, then go to bed at nine, but I figured I had to eat anyway, so I accepted.
Over dinner, I told Paul about my weekend plans. A “century” is a 100 mile ride. A double-century is back-to-back centuries, usually on a Saturday and Sunday. While it was not uncommon for me to ride 100 miles each Saturday and Sunday during the off-season, it was uncommon for me to pay to do it with a bunch of inexperienced cyclists who had trained all year for the event. However, I always enjoyed riding in Gainesville, and was overdue to visit my old roommate Jackie, who was still in school finishing her nineteen-year Ph.D. program. I told Paul he was welcome to come along and ride with me, and he accepted immediately. While I wasn’t crazy about Paul, I felt good about the possibility that he might grow on me. After all, he was a tall, handsome, well-employed guy who didn’t balk at my desire to drive two hundred and fifty miles in order to bike two hundred miles.
After dinner, Paul dropped me off and kissed me on the lips and left. It was open mouth, but no tongue. What the fuck was this guy’s deal? It worked out though, since I had to pack and get up early the next day.
The next day was perfect. The weather for the Saturday Gainesville ride was seventy degrees and sunny with only a slight wind. The campus at the University of Florida was beautiful and pristinely maintained. As always, the brick buildings and manicured landscaping appeared to be autoclaved daily. The funding for this upkeep flowed from alumni who paid $100,000 a year to the school for fifty-yard-line football tickets and great game day parking. The state of Florida often matched these generous donations, provided that the University showed that it was needed for a project. Consequently, it was not uncommon for the school to spend millions of dollars tearing down an old brick building and constructing an old-looking brick building in its place.
In stark contrast to the campus, the outskirts of Gainesville are mostly undeveloped with the exception of the thousands of acres of horse farms and citrus groves. The gated mansions on these properties are blocks away from the trailers and shacks of the people who work the properties. The smooth black asphalt beside the mansions changes abruptly in front of the trailers and shacks to white dusty roads comprised of crushed shells and sugar sand. As a seasoned Gainesville cyclist, I barely noticed the jarring transformation in the road surface. It was only when I rode with someone new, such as Paul, that it occurred to me how obnoxious it is that the county didn’t just pave the entire road.
In between these residences are lakes and parks owned by either the state or the University. My favorite park is Devils Millhopper, a 120- foot limestone sinkhole that has transformed into a mini-rainforest. Devils Millhopper remains cool during the hot and humid Florida summer and wet during Florida’s spring droughts. Since Paul and I were not in any particular hurry, we took a detour and rode down into the sinkhole. We also stopped at a “sag” station every twenty miles and filled up on Oreos, Fig Newtons and water. It crossed my mind a few times during the day that every bike ride of mine could be this relaxing if I didn’t have a psychotic desire to turn every delightful task into a cutthroat competition, or even better, if I channeled my competitive nature in another direction. My life would be much easier if I were competitive at my office and relaxed on the bike.
After the ride, we had just enough time to shower before meeting my old roommate Jackie and her boyfriend for dinner. This was the third time I’d stayed with Jackie for a cycling-related event and I always took her out for dinner. Jackie didn’t expect it, but she was still a student without a real job, so I felt obligated to treat her. Besides, if I didn’t stay with Jackie, I would have to pay for a hotel, so I usually wound up ahead of the game. However, this time, we were a party of four at a nice restaurant instead of just Jackie and me at a bar. There seemed to be no tactful way for me to pick up Jackie’s check and leave her boyfriend and Paul to pay, so, I resigned myself to spending two hundred plus on dinner instead of half of a one-hundred-dollar hotel.
Fortunately, by the time the check arrived I was filled with sangria, which tended to make me overly generous. I reached out to grab the bill, but Paul took it and put his card down without looking at it. I grabbed my wallet and made the courtesy offer to split the check with him, secretly hoping he’d decline. He obliged. Paul’s picking up the check not only saved me money, but was a pretty good sign that he was trying to get laid.
When we got to Jackie’s, Paul and I retired to the room that was my bedroom four years ago when Jackie and I were roommates. We lay on the dog-hair-covered futon and started making out. Paul seemed to be very involved and passionate even though five minutes or so had already passed and he had yet to put his hands anywhere but my face. I wanted to be into the prolonged romantic kissing, but it wasn’t doing it for me and I really wanted him to move things along.
Ten minutes later, we were still making out like teenagers, minus the passion and dry humping. My mission to get laid and thereby feel normal was not going well. I didn’t know what to do. I had never had to initiate sex before. I was beginning to think I was dating a gay guy. I knocked my leg into his crotch for research. He was hard, but he recoiled away from my leg. I was truly puzzled. He was picking up checks and getting hard-ons, then stopping at first base. I was so bored that I abruptly called it a night.
The next day, we drove back to Tampa. After dropping Paul off, I headed over to Sunday night dinner at my parents’ house. I was tired and didn’t feel like going, but they were watching Sonny and I had to pick him up. As I was getting out of my car, David jogged past their house in his nut-hugging jogging shorts. It was like seeing a teacher out of school and I was not happy, though I gave a very excited, “Hi David, I didn’t know you jog.”
“I run every day at four a.m.”
Technically, he was not even jogging let alone running. He was putzing around at a ten-minute-mile pace. Still, I decided only to react to the 4:00 a.m. bullshit. I looked at my watch. “It’s seven p.m.”
“I mean during the week. I might have to choose a new exercise temporarily, I’m having neck surgery.”
“Why? Are you okay?” Please be out of work a long time. Please be out of work a long time. Please be out of work a long time.
“When I was a child, my mom dropped me and damaged my neck. I’ve been able to push through the pain my entire life.”
Everything was starting to make sense. I decided to fuck with him. “Why are you getting the surgery now then? You can’t take the pain anymore?”
“I’m a partner now, I can afford to take time off. You on the other hand, this pregnancy will really set you back. You’ll never make partner now.”
I could not believe a lawyer could know so little about the law. I could sue him just for saying that. Too bad I wasn’t actually pregnant. I decided to switch gears. “Why don’t you try riding a bike? That’s low impact and shouldn’t hurt your neck.”
“I can’t ride a bike, it hurts my balls.”
I did not need to know that. I debated whether to engage and opted to do so. “You could get a more comfortable saddle and wear padded bike shorts.”
“Nothing can help me. My balls are really sensitive, my wife will back me up on this.”
I officially had way too much information about David’s nut sac. “Good to know. I’m late for dinner, I have to go.”
But David replied, “So do your parents know yet?”
“Know what?” I asked.
“About the baby.”
How the hell did I forget about that whopper? “Not yet. I’m only a month pregnant and I’d like to enjoy a few more months of peace before I tell them.”
“Well, if you need someone, you know I’m always here.”
“Thanks,” I said, pondering ways to confide in David and freak him out.
I was barely in the door before my mom started quizzing me about Paul. I told her we went to Gainesville, rode bikes and had a good time, but there was no need to start designing her mother-of-the-bride gown.
A few minutes later, John and Julie arrived. John is a funeral director and embalmer. In spite of their thirty-year age gap, John and my dad are clones. Both of them are workaholics who pride themselves on long hours and lack of sleep. Thank God I didn’t get that gene. To make matters worse, they both practice in areas in which I would rather drink acid than work: accounting and funeral directing. While they are both very fun and personable, you couldn’t help thinking about the inevitability of death and taxes whenever the two of them are together.
Dinner was fairly uneventful. John started telling us about his work week. The highlights were picking up a dead bum who wasn’t found for three weeks and was decayed and covered in maggots; embalming an 800-pound woman whose arteries were so blocked that John had to run embalming fluid through her from six different points to get the fluid completely circulated, only to find out later that she was too big for her pre-ordered casket and had to be cremated; working on a kid whose forehead had to removed from a dashboard and re-formed prior to a viewing; and a guy with a Nazi tattoo that John got to cremate. Typical day at the office.
* * *
A week later, I went into David’s office after he returned from his surgery. He had been out for the week and it seemed like I had been on vacation for two. This meeting was going to suck. I would have to hear about his neck surgery, then give him a detailed update of every single one of my cases. When David was in the office, I often went for months without dissecting each case with him. But every time he missed a day of work he insisted on discussing each case ad nauseam.
“How did the neck surgery go?” I asked, thankful he was wearing a neck brace which reminded me to offer sympathy.
“Excellent. The doctor said he’s never seen anyone recover as well as me. It’s because I’m so fit. It was funny actually, one of the tests the doctor gave me to make sure the strength returned to my arms was that he asked me to push against his chest. So I did it, and accidentally shoved the doctor across the room. I couldn’t help it, I’m just so strong that he flew in the other direction when I touched him.”
I involuntarily rolled my eyes and hoped David didn’t see it.
He continued, saying, “I told the doctor he was lucky that I just underwent surgery because I was likely to kill him if he asked me to do that before I endured surgery. I told him I bench two hundred and twenty pounds and he couldn’t believe it. Can you?”
“I have no frame of reference, I’m not a gym rat.”
“It’s a lot. Sometimes I see your dad at the gym and he only benches one hundred and fifty. Then again, he’s not big like me.”
I had no doubt that David actually checked out how much my dad benches, so I just gave the answer that every first grader gives and said, “My dad is bigger than you.”
“No he’s not.”
“Well I don’t know about chest and biceps measurements, but he’s taller than you.”
“No he’s not, I’m six feet.”
“He’s six-two.”
“No he’s not.”
I almost said, “Really, did you measure him while checking out how much he benches?” but refrained. I was not surprised that David had an irrational self-body image; just surprised I had never realized it. He’s forty-four years old and in average shape; not skinny or muscular, just medium. My dad is sixty-one years old, also average, but apparently he benches less than David. Still, my money would be on my dad if the two of them fought since he was from South Philly instead of South Tampa. I suddenly had the urge to set up a fight between my dad and my boss.
Dad vs. Boss
could be a new reality TV series.
“So you agree, he’s not six-two?”
“I haven’t measured him lately, but the mark on the wall when we were kids said six-two.”
“I think he shrunk, he’s at least four inches shorter than me.”
“You think he’s five-nine? There’s no way.” How did I get involved in this conversation? I was defending my dad’s height.
“I’ll check it out next time I see him at the gym, but I don’t want to measure until I’m completely healed.”