I'm
not very happy with my cycling buddy A Man Called Horse* right now. He broke
the "if something isn't broken, don't fix it" rule. In fact, I'd go
so far as to say he willfully messed with the order of the Universe, and now he’s
I'm going to suffer the consequences. I warned him, and he did it anyway, and
I'm not happy.
Last
summer A Man Called Horse and I rode the bike trails together a lot. He said I
was the only one crazy enough to ride with him in the 100-degree temperatures the
Midwest enjoyed much of the summer. We'd ride 25 or more miles in the
blistering heat, soaked through with sweat, a layer of bugs stuck to our skin.
We were a perfect match, and not just because we both like riding when the
weather man tells us to stay in at the risk of heat stroke.
The
real reason we rode so well together is because my bike is amazing -- light,
responsive, fast, built for a woman's body -- and A Man Called Horse's bike was
a serious piece of shit. He rode an old mountain bike, too small for him, with
gears that only rarely worked. He probably could have gotten a little more out
of it, but he doesn't think to pump up his tires. I'm just going to say it: I
kicked his ass every time we rode.
Or
I would have, except I rode slower so he could keep up. Sometimes he had to ask
me to slow down, but for the most part, I didn't ride ahead of him ..... OK, a
few times I might have mocked him and said something slightly snarky clever like,
"Why can't you keep up with me, old man?" Or, during his crazy vegan period,
"How about I put a piece of bacon on a stick and hold it out in front of
your face while I ride ahead of you? Would that make you ride faster?" Witty,
but not insulting.
See,
A Man Called Horse isn't an old man. He's younger than I am (fuck no, I'm not
saying how much younger) and he's in much better shape. In fact, he does all
kinds of crazy shit to challenge himself. Like, he'll go out and live in the
woods for several weeks with nothing more than a clothespin and a piece of
string in his pocket. In the winter. Or he'll rappel off bridges at night in
the city, and run away from the cops through drainage ditches and creeks. And
the reason I call him A Man Called Horse? Watch the movie. He's got the scars
to prove it.
So
for me to kick his ass in any physical activity is ridiculous. Ludicrous. Impossible.
And yet, I really did kick his ass all summer and on into the fall on the bike
trail -- all because of my fine, fast bike. But not because I could ever really
kick his ass at any physical activity.
It
drove him nuts. He had to stand up on his pedals half the time, even as he knew
I was riding slower than I needed to. I can't count how many times he wheezed
groaned said, "I hate your fucking bike." But he'd rationalize
it by saying if he rode a shitty bike in the hardest gear, he'd be in that much
better shape when he finally bought a good bike. And I supported him.
I
told him not to buy a good bike or he'd get fat and lazy. I told him his bike
was just fine, and it suited him. He's not a guy who cares about owning lots of
fancy things. I strongly encouraged him to just keep his crappy bike and try to
keep up with me so he could build stamina, lose weight, and maintain humility.
I supported him in every way I could.
See,
I am a good riding buddy even when I'm kicking ass. And I thought A Man Called
Horse was too. I thought he was a man who enjoyed challenging himself. I
thought he was a man who wanted to push his physical limits to the max. I
thought he was a humble man who could tolerate getting his ass kicked by a
woman .... but no. I was so wrong.
On
our first ride this year he showed up on a new bike $50 bike he’d bought
at a flea market. He probably paid too much. It was better than his old
mountain bike, but it was still a piece of crap with gears that slipped. Once
he filled the tires though, he could really tell a difference. I still kicked
his ass, but he rode faster and easier. And he could still tell himself he was
working out way harder than I was, so technically I wasn’t really kicking his
ass. All was well. Until he went rogue.
A
few weeks ago he showed up uncharacteristically early to pick me up for a ride.
He was acting funny. Eager and even more energetic than usual. Giddy even.
Until he noticed I was crying.
I’d
just read that Rollo had died about 20 minutes earlier. We commiserated for a
while, remembered the jazz and poetry service we’d all done together in church
once, and then A Man Called Horse was back to his weird giddiness again. “This
ride is for Rollo then,” he said.
He
grabbed my bike and took off out the front door before I even had my shoes on.
I had to chase after him to get my key out of my bike bag to lock the door, and
he barely slowed down to let me do that.
When
we got to the car, he said, “Go ahead and get in the car. I’ll put your bike on
the rack.” I guess I didn’t move fast enough because as he lifted my bike he
ordered, “Just get in the car and wait so we can get going.” Jeez. OK!
We
drove to a street near our starting point on the trail, although we could just as easily have
ridden from my house. A Man Called Horse parked and jumped out of the car,
almost before it had stopped. He hurried to the rack to get my bike
off.
I
grabbed my helmet and gloves, got out and walked around the car to join him, but
he walked about 15 feet from the back of the car, stood on the far side
of my bike and said, “Here you go.” I have to admit, my mind was on Rollo. I
noted A Man Called Horse’s odd behavior, but I didn’t really try to make sense
of it.
I
got busy putting on my helmet and gloves (unlike A Man Called Horse who rides
in nothing but shorts and shoes), with my back to the car just as he'd positioned me. As I threw my leg over my bike, he took
off ahead of me down the street. I followed, but he stayed pretty far ahead,
talking back over his shoulder, across a major street and through a park to the
levy.
He
shot down the ramp to the path, zooming ahead of me. I followed at a more
normal pace, but he was rocketing away down the path. I looked down at my
computer: 18 mph and I still wasn’t catching up to him. WTF, I thought. He’s going to
kill himself in the first five miles.
I
backed off to a more reasonable cruising speed of about 15 mph , and eventually
he slowed down to let me catch up. Almost.
It
had rained earlier, and I remember making some remark about getting goose poop
up my back because I don’t have fenders. As he replied from a couple of bike’s
lengths ahead of me, I glanced at his back tire to see if he had fenders on his
new piece of crap bike. Hmmm.
That tire looked brand new, and like it cost more than the bike. I didn’t
remember that from when we stopped so he could put air in his tires.
Then
he slowed a little bit more and made a comment that I don’t remember to this
day … You know how people who suffer a trauma, like an accident or a horrible
shooting, don’t remember what happened just before? Like that.
Because
as I pulled up on the right side of him, I looked over at his bike and saw 4
big, bold letters running along his down tube. I can hardly write this because
I felt like my head had exploded. Those 4 letters spelled TREK.
“What
the fuck did you do?” I screamed. The geese scattered ahead of us on the path. “What
the fuck are you doing on a Trek? Where did you get that bike?”
He
just grinned at me. From a flat-bar Trek so new the little tags on the tires
weren’t worn off yet he just grinned.
“Tell
me you did not buy a Trek. Tell me
right now you did not buy a Trek
bicycle after all the times I told you to stick with the piece of shit bike you
had. I ride a Trek! Tell me you did not go out and buy yourself a fucking
Trek.”
He
laughed. The fucker laughed. “It’s mine! I bought it for $200 from a guy who
had only ridden it around the block once. I couldn’t believe it when I picked
up your bike and realized you rode a Trek too. I never noticed before.”
“Of
course you didn’t notice! You don’t give a shit about whether a bike is good or
bad. You want to ride a piece of shit so
you can work out harder, remember? How could you do this to me? To us? What
the fuck were you thinking?”
I
berated him for the next 10 miles, but he didn’t repent. In fact, he just
wanted to ride faster. And faster. Eventually we came to a hill, and instead of
changing gears he …. I can’t believe I’m going to tell this …. he stood up on
his peddles. To go up a little hill.
I
glared at him and hissed, “Sit down. Sit
down!”
“What?”
He peddled harder, still standing.
“Sit
your ass down on your seat immediately, before somebody sees you. You’re riding
a Trek now. A Trek! You can’t be standing up on your peddles like somebody who
rides a piece of shit bike. Sit down
right now!”
“Oh,
I guess I should just use my gears, huh?”
“Yes,
you should use your gears. If you’re going to ride a Trek and break your
promise to me, at least don’t embarrass me out here on the trail. Keep your
butt on your seat.”
Well,
he didn’t, at least not on that ride. I had to call his butt down at least six
more times. It was humiliating on that first ride. But on the next ride he only
did it a couple of times, and now he’s shifting like a pro. A fucking pro who
had to go out and buy himself a Trek.
(Oh,
fine. I might as well show you what it looks like. He’s so proud of it [and I don't blame him].)
The first ride. |
And
as I suspected, his new bike turned him into a beast. Now when we ride, he
rides ahead of me, and if he stays close enough, talks back over his shoulder. What
I mean is, I no longer kick his ass, OK? He can kick mine.
And
he’s bought all kinds of accoutrements for his bike: lights, a computer, fancy
hand grips, and an entire pannier system for the back. He still only rides in
shorts and shoes, but his bike is as decked out as a bike can get without
looking like a big sissy. In other words, he’s got everything but the pom poms
shooting out the end of his handlebars.
And now he notices other people's bikes. What brand they are. How much they cost. Shit he never paid attention to before. He's obsessed now that he's a Trek rider.
I’m
so happy for him. Really, I am. He's kicking my ass now having so much fun with his new toy.
I
only made one mistake after he bought his new bike. That first ride we were
only a few miles from the end when he said, “How much different do you think
our bikes are now?”
I
lied said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re about the same.”
“But
you paid more for yours, and it’s a road bike. Lighter, thinner tires,” he
persisted.
“Yeah,
but they’re both Treks….”
“Trade
for a sec.”
“Why?
You just got your bike. Besides your seat is too tall for me and …”
“Trade.”
A Man Called Horse was already off his bike and reaching for mine.
“Fine.”
I traded with him and he took off on my bike. I followed more slowly on his.
After a mile or so, he turned around and zoomed back.
“Oh,
man, I don't believe it. Your bike still kicks ass. If I’m going to be a real cyclist, I’m going to
need one of these next ……”
It
never fucking ends.
I have to admit, they look pretty sexy together on the back of the car. |
WOW. I was convinced he'd sabotaged your bike somehow and you were going to zoom right into the Great Miami and get seriously injured.
ReplyDeleteBut the truth was worse!
Much worse. Now he rides a quarter of a mile ahead of me. Oh, he stops every once in a while to wait for me to catch up, but then he takes off again as soon as I get there. Unbearable is what it is. ;-)
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