Note: There's no graphic sex here, folks, so if that's priority read no further. However, if you find compelling two would-be lovers, both married to other people, caught up in moral conflict, read on, because that's what this romance story is about.
*****
Tim
No, I wasn't surprised to learn that Addison Weil, a late wave baby-boomer, was married with grown children. Extraordinarily attractive, athletic women like her, who look ten years younger aren't usually single, and if they are, they don't stay single for long.
Addison, like I said, was married, so that's one thing we had in common. The other thing was a serious commitment to exercise, running for her, cycling for me. Addison belonged to the Delray Road Runners, a club for competitive runners. She also rode bikes, which is how we met on a group ride I organized as a member of The Daring Derailleurs (we're not as bad as the name suggests, although we can get competitive at times, even though we're not an official racing club). Addison checked out the ride schedule on our web site, then showed up on a hot Sunday morning, with her sleek, lightweight carbon machine in tow.
In fact, she was the first to put her name on the sign-in sheet, about twenty minutes before the ride start. I greeted her, then discreetly perused her long, smooth tan legs and firm looking derriere (not to be confused with derailleur) as she bent over to sign her name on the clipboard that sat inside the cab of my orange Toyota Matrix hatch. We stood by my car and chatted as other riders showed up, a few that lived nearby on bikes, the rest in their cars. It was in those brief few minutes that I learned she had run the Boston Marathon, and that she was married. She dropped references to her husband a few times—innocently or by design to discourage a potential advance, I didn't know for sure. Women can tell when men look at them a certain way, and I suspected that she suspected, for in addition to said tan legs, Addison was damn cute: high cheek bones, green eyes, lips that practically begged to be kissed. Yes, she had wrinkles, but they were easy to overlook given the total physical package, which included a voice, soft and seductive, that could arouse my attention no matter what she said. Even before we took off, I was on the edge of smitten.
Initially, given her fitness resume, I thought she might drop me, a fear that ten minutes into this fifty mile ride proved unfounded. She was a reasonably strong rider, pacing, like me, in the mid to upper teens, far from super fast but respectable. Our group of twelve broke up into three main sub-groups, fast, faster and fastest. Given my decent climbing ability, I could have hung with the fastest, except that would have kept me away from Addison, who fell off the pace every time we hit a hill, of which there were many. After cresting a hill, I'd slow down, waiting for her to catch up. Being the ride leader, I felt somewhat obligated. By her own admission, Addison was less than familiar with the roads, even though she had a cue sheet. I confess, it was partly selfish, because waiting up afforded me the opportunity to ogle her legs, beautiful and athletic, glowing from her deep tan and crisscrossed by healthy blue veins. I didn't see the usual middle-age sag anywhere, including her butt; even that looked cute and firm under her spandex.
"Thanks for waiting up, Tim," she told me at the mile twenty-five rest stop, a Sheetz convenience store in a small town in southern Pennsylvania. "I don't think I could ever climb the way you do." Just as she slid off her helmet, a refreshing breeze blew wisps of her brown, shoulder-length locks across her forehead.
"Well, I could never run a marathon, least of all Boston," I responded. "So I guess we're even."
We were standing in front of the building in our black spandex shorts and colorful jerseys, chomping on our energy bars and sipping our Gatorade. Our bikes, like the others, leaned against the brick façade. Had we both been single, Addison Weil was someone I'd have pursued—and not just on the bike. I doubted the feeling was mutual. Except in rare instances, it seldom is. She did throw out one compliment after she asked my age. "You're sixty? No way!"
Not to brag, but I had received like kudos from others, both men and women. Over forty years of sweat equity deposited via all forms of exercise—weights, cycling, running, wrestling, et al—had rewarded me with a physique that men half my age admired. Far from Mr. Olympia huge, I stood a ripped five-ten and weighed around one-eighty on weeks I didn't splurge. At Myrtle Beach one summer, a woman came up to me and said, "Mind if I wash my clothes on your washboard?" She was referring to my six-pack, of course, still washboard tight into my sixth decade. If my balding head and the flecks of gray in what remained of my once thick, dark brown mane made me look older, Addison didn't notice or she was just being nice.
In any event, our conversation barely deviated from the casual and superficial. We both mentioned our grown children and jobs, more as adjuncts to what else we discussed. Surprise, surprise, cycling was our main topic, same as it was with most of the riders that stood around us, supplying themselves with nourishment to complete the second half of the ride.
Soon, we were back on the road, and by mile thirty-five, Addison was drafting behind me. Thirty-five miles was the most she had done in awhile, she then told me, and her quads were beginning to burn. "Geez, I hope I can make it," she said, struggling with each hill.
Running marathons, I knew, didn't prepare one for the rigors of long, hilly bike rides. You employed different muscles, as Addison was now painfully aware. "Don't drop me now," she said in a tone between joking and serious.
Of course, I stayed with her, shouting encouragement with each passing mile. But the hills, some long and steep, were relentless, and by mile forty her burning quads were beginning to cramp. Cramping wasn't a foreign condition to me either—I had done lots of it on hilly rides in sub-par conditioning. Spinning the pedals in a high cadence helps, but you need flat terrain for that, and there wasn't more than a couple miles at a stretch here.
Just before mile forty-five, her cramping forced her to stop. In a rural area once again, we wheeled our bikes to the edge of a cornfield. Addison limped over to the strip of grass between the road and cornrows and plopped herself down. "I'll ride to our cars, then drive back here to pick you up," I said.
"No, I'm going to complete this," she insisted. "Believe me, Tim, I've suffered worse during marathons. If you don't mind messaging these burning legs of mine, I should be good to go."
"Sure, no problem," I said, trying not to appear too anxious. Upon stooping, I slipped off my helmet and fingerless riding gloves and then began to work my sweaty hands over her tan, velvet-soft skin. "How am I doing?"
"You're doing great, keep going."
Periodically, in the midst of my amateur handiwork, I'd look up and catch her gazing into my brown eyes with loving affection. Naturally, I returned the "look." As noted, I was on the edge of smitten, not daring to assume she felt likewise, not anything beyond relief and gratitude. Had we been something other than strangers on a bike ride, I'd have supplemented my message with soft kisses on her delicious mouth. Not that it wasn't tempting...
Imagine my surprise when, after she stood up, feeling better, she hugged me and then planted a quick kiss on the side of my face. "Thanks, that was wonderful," she said. "I should be okay for these last five miles."
Rolling to flat terrain defined those last five miles, so she did fine. The fast group was pulling out of the park&ride lot by the time we returned. I suspected they had been back awhile, trading their usual macho bragging before packing up.
"Next time I'll be in better condition," Addison assured me after racking her bike on the roof rack of her white Hyundai Sonata. "Thanks for leading and especially thanks for getting me through it. Couldn't have done it without you."
We embraced, and once again she kissed me, this time on the mouth, short but sweet. "I'll look for more of your rides on the Daring Derailleur web site," she said before departing.
