Note: A number of readers of "Quiet Desperation" (Romance section, published 8/17/17) urged me to write a follow-up. So, by popular demand as they say, here it is. Enjoy.
*
Tim
You only live once, right? We hear that all our lives. Yet it's only when we reach an advanced age that it hits home. I'm sixty, advanced enough to know, advanced enough to know that time is running out, that the window of opportunity to enjoy some of life's pleasures is beginning to close. In my case, we're talking about GUILTY pleasures; and Addison Weil is my guilty pleasure—guilty because we're both married, guilty because we have this strong mutual attraction that threatens to cause us trouble at home.
We met on a bike ride, an innocent bike ride that became anything but a couple rides later when things got romantic in her white Hyundai Sonata. Our shorts stayed on, keeping our genitalia from committing serious mischief. We kissed and stroked and felt and whispered lovely things. But we didn't, pardon the corny cliché, cross home plate.
Still, we cheated (sorry William Clinton, we did), and neither of us feels good about that. Facing my wife Diane wasn't easy. 'How did the ride go, honey?' she asked when I got home, fresh from my romp in the Hyundai. 'Oh, other than getting caught in the rain, it was okay,' I said this with a straight face while wincing internally from the visceral pain of violating my own moral code. To thine own self be true, and I wasn't.
But you only live once, right? See, there's the kicker, the thing that keeps buzzing around me like a swarm of pesky gnats. It's the Big Rationalization for doing the wrong thing. If it feels good, it's okay, we said in the sixties. Is it really? Nah, even if your wife is overweight, even if you're bored with a decades old marriage under your belt, even if you find that "dream" woman, whether it's through serendipity or other means. Not cool, not okay, and yet the hunger for making a deeper connection with Addie beckons. So far, I've seen her only on bike rides. Every day, I wrestle with the temptation to call, to ask if she'd like to meet for a drink or for lunch. So far, we haven't seen each other wearing anything but spandex. However, I don't have her cell, only her home number, and that wouldn't be cool at all, not with a husband who might answer. I therefore decide to hold off, to wait until I see her on the next bike ride.
*****
"This time I'm here because you're leading this ride," Addie says. "I thought of avoiding it, of avoiding all the fuss and complication that might result from seeing you. I'm weak, I guess."
"An apt description of me, Addie," I confess.
We're standing in the parking lot of Haybrook Elementary School on a Sunday morning. About ten Daring Derailleur club members are here, pumping their tires, checking over their machines, studying the cue sheets I hand out. I'm always psyched before rides I lead, even more so now because Addie's here. No surprise, she still looks great, glowing from her golden tan, her lithe, athletic bod wrapped in tight spandex. Those who pooh-pooh the notion that women in their fifties can't be babes, haven't seen Addie Weil. She's touched me good, and I don't mean just physically. "Something in the way she moves...and all I have to do is think of her..." as the song goes.
She clamps her front wheel onto the fork of her Fuji carbon machine. Then she says, "So, are we riding together? You're faster than me and I don't want to hold you back."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." I look up at the sky, nearly cloudless. "But I guess we won't end up in any farmer's shed today."
With a roguish grin, she says, "At least not to protect us from rain."
She refers to our last ride when we sought shelter in a rusted shed from a driving rainstorm and pressed our bodies together to keep warm. One thing led to another. Today, who knows? Already, I sense trouble, the delicious kind, and we haven't even left yet.
"Do you have something in mind?"
She grins. "With you, Tim, I've always got something in mind."
I leave it at that, then lead the troops off school grounds and onto the road for the beginning of our forty-mile trek. As usual, the fastest riders pull ahead after the first steep hill. Submitting to my competitive nature, I rise from the saddle and go after them, dropping Addie and the others. Cranking furiously, I catch them and stay with them all the way to the top, then wait for Addie and the others to catch up.
"Show off," Addie says, teasingly.
"Couldn't resist," I retort.
We trade good-natured trash talk on the descent. "I'd leave you in the dust on a long distance run," she brags. I don't argue because she's right. I mean, this is a chick who's run the Boston Marathon. Running isn't my thing. Never has been, not unless you count an occasional scoot down the block.
The fast group is now minutes ahead, gaining time with every pedal turn. Just as well, I plan to stick with Addie for the rest of the ride. We're riding through a mostly rural region, passing barns and cows and acres of fields bordered with barbed wire. I hope that the patch quilt of suburban development we pass doesn't spread further. We both voice concerns about that, about a change in zoning that could spell the end of verdant, wide-open spaces (where would we ride then?). Mostly we keep silent, trading warm smiles riding side-by-side on roads with wide shoulders. Should these bike rides be the extent of our connection, I'd still feel lucky. Of course, I'd like more. But, being pragmatic, I know that more is hardly feasible: tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
At mile twenty-two, we pull into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and park our bikes on the side of the building. Some in our group go inside, either to relieve themselves, buy sports drink or both. Addie and I brought two water bottles apiece, so we're okay. The humidity is low for this time of year. Still, we sweat. The smooth skin on Addie's tanned face glistens; her bangs mat to her forehead. My fantasies once again intrude, picturing her sweating face and body while we make love. Should I share these thoughts with her? Better not. Besides, she already knows. I'd love to kiss her, but right now that's not safe either, because there's people in our group that not only know we're both married, but know our spouses, Diane and Jim. The possible fallout gives me pause.
Addie peels back the foil on her energy bar and says, "You know, I'm starting to miss that shed."
"Yes, that was nice," I say, taking sips from my water bottle. "I guess there's no excuse for us doing that again, no rain or sudden temperature drop."
"Well, maybe we'll get an earthquake." Turning serious again, she stamps her foot, dragging the cleat of her black Specialized cycling shoe an inch across the pavement. "It's so infuriating to think we need excuses. Why can't we just get close?" She pauses. "Don't answer that, I'm being rhetorical. Duh."
I point to a clump of bushes behind the building that I've used as an "outhouse" when lines outside the 7-Eleven rest room become impossibly long. "We can steal some private moments in there," I say.