Torn Between Two Lovers
by Tragudis
Wally
It was one of those Indian summer days that a cyclist like Wally Levy deem ideal--warm, sunny, beautiful. Around a dozen people from the Northeast Cycling Club's 13-15mph pace group showed up on Saturday morning, a better than average turnout. The ride leader handed out cue sheets for the forty-mile route, and then introduced two new members, one of whom was Erica Lurie, a twenty-something rider in a group of mostly middle-agers, and a few that had crossed seventy.
Being thirty-one, Wally was one of the youngest riders in the group, where the men outnumbered the women in a lopsided ratio of around eighty to ninety percent, par for the course. No wonder that Erica, a young, hot-looking babe to be sure, was getting lots of attention, most of it confined to discreet looks and friendly chat.
While the ride leader gave a brief rundown of what to expect on the ride, Wally stood behind Miss Lurie, admiring her smooth, athletic legs, while also wondering if she could keep up. Thirteen-fifteen was hardly racing speed. However, she was the only rider out of this dozen on a hybrid, a bike with upright handlebars and wider tires. That rack she had installed in back, plus the round mirror obtrusively sticking out from her handlebars, added to the weight of her aluminum bike and reduced aerodynamics. This chick will get dropped like a bad habit, Wally thought.
The route would take them from the Maryland Line park&ride lot near the Mason-Dixon Line, into Glen Rock, Pennsylvania. The terrain rolled through mostly farmland, with patches of suburban development here and there. The route had hills, most of them under ten percent grade. Wallace had done harder routes, routes with longer, steeper hills. Still, the ride wasn't without its challenges, especially if, like Erica, you rode a hybrid and you wanted to keep up with riders on lightweight, carbon machines with dropped handlebars.
Per what normally happened, the group of twelve splintered into sub-groups after the first major hill. And guess what? Erica, along with Wally and three other riders, were in the lead group. By mile four, they averaged just over sixteen miles per hour. Wally was impressed to see Erica chasing two riders that had broken away, pumping her smooth, tan legs like pistons, despite enduring more wind drag than the rest of the riders. She never quite caught them, but what an effort! Wally and another rider reeled her in a couple of miles up the road. On the hills, she didn't stand up even once (more awkward on a hybrid), preferring to sit and spin at what appeared to be at least a ninety-rpm cadence.
The two hammerheads broke away and stayed away, while Erica, another rider and Wally reduced their speed to within the listed pace all the way to a convenience store in Glen Rock. They had gone around twenty-six miles and already Wally's quads were burning from the fast-paced start. The two hammerheads were already there. Minutes later, slower riders from the group began to stream in. The Royal Farms store was the rest/snack stop, where some riders bought jugs of water or Gatorade and energy bars or just consumed what they brought with them while chatting outside the store.
Wally's vintage, all-steel red Schwinn Paramount, replete with six-speed freewheel and downtube shifters, caught a few curious stares (and snickers), as it did at the ride start. He owned a more modern, twenty-two-speed, carbon Specialized but liked the looks and feel of his vintage Paramount, not to mention the attention it brought. Erica noticed. "Cool bike. Did you inherit that from a relative or something?"
"An Ebay purchase," he revealed, taking note of how pretty this girl was. She had medium brown hair, tied into a braid, green eyes, a cute, slightly upturned nose and lips that said, kiss me.' To his eyes, she was the image of the proverbial farmer's daughter in Spandex. She was also a bit taller than him, which made her slightly over five-eight.
"You're one powerful rider," he said. "Think what you could do on a road bike."
"Yeah, this bike makes me work harder," she said, reaching for an energy bar in the pocket of her sleeveless blue jersey. "But it's comfortable and I have no desire to race. I do the trails a lot." She bit into her snack. Then: "So what about you? You're not built like your average skinny road racer," she said, eyeing his sixteen-inch biceps.
She got that right. Wally told her that he hit the weights two to three times a week and tipped the scales at around one-ninety, way above what most cyclists weighed around his height.
"I've been lifting weights more lately," she revealed. "Leg extensions and lunges holding dumbbells." Her well-developed quads confirmed that. "By the way, I'm Erica Lurie."
"Wally Levy."
They shook hands. Most women rarely gave their last names to strange men on rides like this, which made Wally wonder if there could be a remote chance that she might be interested in him. He sure as hell was interested in her. Was she married or otherwise attached? He had no clue and knew to ask was stepping over that unspoken line where personal questions like that didn't belong on group rides between people just met. Protocol...
The group took off, and formed another sub-group, this time with six riders. Then, not two miles from the rest stop, Wally's rear tire punctured. The group saw it but, after a token, 'are you okay?,' they kept going. All except Erica.
"Look, I don't want to hold you up," he said, after pulling over to the shoulder of the road. "I've got spare tubes and the means to change them."
Erica clipped out and stood by her bike. "I'm sure you do. I just wanna make sure you're okay." She flashed him a warm smile. "Besides, I like riding with you. So, can I stay?" She drew an exaggerated, little girl, please let me grin.
"Well, now that you put it that way," he said, before pulling into a nearby driveway to change his tube. A few of the slower riders passed by, asked the same token question, then proceeded on. "I appreciate you sticking around," he said. "Most riders, as you might have noticed, really don't want to. It's an imposition."
She chuckled. "Yeah, I noticed."
Once back on the road, they traded the lead over the beautiful rolling countryside. At one point, they even indulged in some friendly competition, racing up one of the hills. "I thought you didn't race," he yelled standing up, bouncing on the pedals, just inches from her rear wheel.
She laughed and made a half-turn. "Not officially. But I CAN get competitive."
Pulling parallel with her, I said, "Yeah, I got that impression when you were chasing those lead guys before the rest stop."
They stayed together for the rest of the ride, chatting back and forth when there was no traffic behind them. In those moments, he learned that Erica worked as a radiology tech. In turn, she learned that he worked in real estate, fixing up houses and flipping them. He got the feeling she wasn't married because from experience, whenever he engaged in prolonged conversation with women on bike rides, they invariably mentioned a husband.
When they returned to the ride start, a few people were standing around, engaged in the usual post-ride chitchat. Wally didn't normally do that because long rides left him wanting to get something to eat and possibly a beer, a beverage that refreshed him like no other after a long bike ride in warm weather. He slipped a pair of khaki shorts over his spandex, while watching Erica slide her bike into the back of her forest-green Mini Cooper, parked a few cars away from his Ford SUV. He was tempted to ask if she wanted to share a beer, a bold move considering the circumstances. Once her bike was secure, she stepped over as he was closing the rear door of his car. "Nice riding with you, Wally," she said.
"Yep, same here."
Wearing flip-flops and white shorts she had slipped over her Spandex, she appeared fidgety, looking as if she was debating whether to say something. Finally, she said, "Look, I don't know about you, but I could go for a nice cold brew right now. Devonshire is close by. Care to join me?"
His jaw dropped in wonder. "Erica, you read my mind. "You bet. Let's do it."
Devonshire was a 100-acre local brewery and farm that had been in the same family for a long time. The "tap room," a barn/bar with tables and stools, served patrons who came to imbibe and socialize. In warm weather, one could relax on the adjacent flagstone patio that looked out onto acres of green fields. No liquor was served here, just local brews, plus pizza and sandwiches.
They walked across the gravel parking lot in back, then headed into the tab room, where they ordered mugs of lager, a pizza big enough to split, and then took the meal outside.
She couldn't be married, Wally thought, not if she's sharing a pizza and beer with me. Following some cycling gab, he learned more about her. She played piano and liked watching old black and white movies. Also, she took up cycling to lose weight. "Believe it or not, I was a real fatty a few years ago," she revealed.
"I find that hard to believe," he said.
She whipped out her phone and scrolled to one of her pics. "Seeing is believing. That's me at twenty-one."
She wasn't lying. The pic showed her in shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. Fat thighs and arms and a belly that no girl should have at that tender age. Her dour expression said it all: I don't like myself.
She continued. "I called myself the pastry queen as a joke. But inside, I was miserable. My self-image was in the tank. People would say, 'you have such a pretty face, Erika. If only...'"
"Not pretty, beautiful," Wally said. "And look at your bod now."
