New England Triad

Chapter 01

On a bike trip to the co-op, Stephen acquires granola, oat bran, roasted almonds, and a lover named Beth. Telling his wife about the first three should not be a problem.

************

The food co-op was a good excuse for a day-trip by bicycle. It stood 25 miles or so east of our house--50 miles round-trip--depending on the exact route you took. I could have ridden the rail trail for 43 of those miles--theoretically. But my bike was designed for touring on asphalt, not on the trail's hard-packed mix of dirt and small gravel. Forty-three was too many miles of small bumps and vibration for my 39-year-old body. I'll buy a fatter-tired bike one of these days, I promised myself yet again.

In the meantime, I figured I was good for 30 miles on the trail. I could take the road for the other 20.

It was July, so Ann was working but I was free. The college didn't offer many summer courses, and anyway I needed the time to recover from the hundreds of papers written or plagiarized by students who had no desire to be in my course in the first place. Ann and I were far from rich but, DINKs as we are--double income, no kids--we were comfortable enough. Ann generously agreed I could take summers off.

That Tuesday early-afternoon I was on my way home from the co-op, heading westwards, panniers full of oat bran, tamari-roasted almonds, grind-it-yourself organic peanut butter--essential "counterculture" foodstuffs

circa

1969. (Tofu I could get at the local supermarket.) Too bad I missed the late '60s: I would have fit right in. And especially too bad I missed the so-called Sexual Revolution of those days: that would have been mind-blowing. Or as they would have said back then, consciousness-expanding. Psychedelic.

Fun, at the very least. But who aims for the very least?

In his later years, Dad had opened up a good deal, and he had shared stories of the late '60s--actually the period from about 1968 to 1975. That was when the late '60s, drifting eastwards from San Francisco, finally reached Pennsylvania, where he was living.

For the most part, Dad was on the outer fringes of the hippie culture of the period. He told me he smoked a little pot, like everyone else, but that was about the extent of his drug use. Joined numerous antiwar demonstrations but never burned his draft card. Liked "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and Jefferson Airplane plenty, but never much cared for the Grateful Dead. He even gave Woodstock a pass.

But he did fully commit to two aspects of the 1960s "counterculture" lifestyle: the Sexual Revolution and "human-powered transport," a.k.a. bicycling. (Plus the beard, which he kept the rest of his life.)

Adventurous sex and bicycling: a pretty good pair of late-'60s lifestyle items, if you had to pick just two. Each of them good for body and soul.

"'Make Love, Not War' wasn't just a slogan," he would say. "It was a call to action. There was a

real

war going on, unjustifiable. The Establishment wanted young people to remain virgins and sublimate their sex drive by marching off to Vietnam and killing quote-Gooks-unquote. So fornication wasn't just a pleasure: it was also political action--a Blow Against the Empire. Pretty heady stuff to an 18-year-old.

"It drove The Authorities nuts. Deep in their hearts, they lived in gnawing fear that their unmarried 20-year-old daughters by now were better in bed than their wives. I'm sure some of them were, too--though never underestimate a middle-aged woman. Of course, everyone was on 'the Pill' back then. And this was before herpes and 'way before AIDS. Chlamydia?--never heard of it! The biggest health risks were gonorrhea and crab lice--both easily cured. Don't ask how I know."

Dad tended to talk in well-developed, complex paragraphs. Like me, he was over-educated.

"Try to imagine a time," he would say, "when the best-seller list was full of titles like

Joy of Sex; Open Marriage; The Happy Hooker; Our Bodies, Ourselves; Fear of Flying

...." I recognized the last as a racy novel about casual adultery. Speaking of: Dad was gentleman enough to remain vague about Mom's participation in the Sexual Revolution, before and during their marriage. Still, I got the clear impression that Mom had not spent the revolution chastely sitting on the sidelines.

Alas, by the time I reached my late teens, the revolution had long since petered out... so to speak. Still, the 21st century was not nearly as uptight as the 1950s, say. My wife Ann had proved a skilled and generous lover from our second date onwards. In fact I had been a little surprised to learn that I occupied position number nine on her chronological list of lovers. That struck me as fairly far down the page.

"You're not ninth in my heart, dear," she had said, "just ninth in my vagina. And I think

[pause]

third in my bottom.... No, fourth."

"What about your mouth?" I inquired, bracing myself for some Higher Mathematics.

"Blowjobs! Is that all you men ever think about?" she teased. "I don't count blowjobs, and I suggest you don't either."

I couldn't resist: "Well, then, for how many lovers did you swallow our semen?"

Oops. Her reply plainly indicated that I had pushed her too far. "Let's see... you were the first, so I guess the answer is 22.... No: 26. And for your second wife, I suggest you find a nice bookkeeper."

None of those three figures is true. I think

.

The point is that neither Ann nor I was an innocent virgin on our wedding day--or wanted our partner to be one, either--so obviously the Sexual Revolution had not fizzled out entirely. On the other hand, nobody in the USA had uttered the phrase "open marriage" in four decades or more--including Ann and me.

I think that, deep down inside, neither of us expected from our spouse an unblemished record of sexual exclusiveness, now and forevermore. Neither of us thought that infidelity would be unforgivable--or even terribly unlikely. On the other hand, neither of us had explicitly granted the other permission to copulate with other people--even now, five years after Ann had crossed that line.

The field was still murky, the line still indistinct, the consequences of crossing the line still uncertain--almost as much now as they had been five years ago.

Oh, for the moral clarity of 1970! "You fucked your former colleague from work in a parking lot? How wonderful! Let's open some wine to celebrate while you tell me all about it." Or in other ZIP codes: "I'm divorcing you, you whore! And don't even think about getting custody!" Moral clarity either way.

Bicycling stayed in Dad's life longer than the Sexual Revolution did. He bought his last bike in 1982--the year I was born--and rode it for about 35 years. He loved it and maintained it beautifully. It was a Trek, their top-of-the-line touring bike, pretty much hand-made in their Wisconsin factory. The tubing, the components, the workmanship: everything about the bike was of very high quality. Dad had really splurged to buy this model, spending something like 700 1982-dollars on it--plus more for the rear rack, nylon

panniers

or side-bags, rack-top bag, bottle cages, toe clips, and other accessories.

The day finally came when Dad could no longer bicycle. Five years ago it was: about the same time as Ann's little excursion. Dad's balance was off, his back and hip muscles weak, his spine frail. He could no longer swing his leg up over the saddle to mount the bike. Nor could he risk another fall. He asked me to adopt his bike. Of course I said yes.

I owned a bicycle, had even gone riding with Dad a few times, but--unlike him--I had been far from an enthusiast. At the time I received the Trek, though, my emotions were unsettled. I had Dad's declining health to worry about plus my marital difficulties and also some troubles at work. Riding the bike--that bike--proved very therapeutic.

Week by week the miles increased. I developed a bittersweet love for that bike, enjoying its feel, its poise, its comfort, the fine workmanship of its frame. Knowing the bike would outlast my father. As it did. By the end of the year I had put 900 miles on it, the next year 2200. I was hooked.

************

So that sunny Tuesday I was riding the Trek homewards on the rail trail, panniers now laden with tamari almonds, oat bran, organic peanut butter, plus some extra water, spare tube, tire irons, rain jacket, and whatnot. I was somewhere in Columbia, or maybe eastern Andover--still miles from home.

Almost all the trail is in the woods, save for an occasional clearing and occasional street crossing. It was flat here in the eastern portion, but the trail would start to rise just beyond the covered bridge. The uphill grade was nothing to worry about. The trail had been the rail bed of a long-defunct 19th-century railroad, and the small steam engines in use here could haul a freight train up only gentle inclines.

The trail was shady, pretty, plenty wide, very quiet, and--here in the east--remarkably level and pretty much deserted too. And the surface was pretty well tended. Pedaling along, a touring bicyclist could feel his blood pressure drop, his neck muscles relax, and his brainwaves smooth out.

Until something goes wrong with his bike. Or her bike.

Her bike was upside-down, on the edge of the trail, just past a little wooden bridge over a creek. The front wheel was off the bike and in her hands.

I pulled up next to her and stopped. "Flat tire? Can I do anything to help?"

"I hope so," she said. "I replaced the tube, but I need more air than I've got. Also, if you have some water you can spare, I could use a drink."

"Sure," I said, removing the bottle from my down tube. I had refilled it at the co-op with ice and water, and it was still plenty cold. I handed her the bottle, dismounted, and moved my bike onto the little bridge, leaning it against the railing. Good bikes do not have kickstands of course.

"Drink all you like," I said. "I've got more in the panniers."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll be sanitary." Four times she tilted her head back, inverted the bottle above her, squeezed a stream of cold water into her mouth, and swallowed. The bottle's spout stayed at least an inch from her (I noticed) rather pretty, full lips. The lady knows bicycling, I decided.

I couldn't resist examining her body--easy enough to do, as bicycle clothing is lightweight and form-fitting. She was thirty-something, about five-foot eight; curly brown hair, slim-to-medium build, very pretty overall. Beneath her pastel jersey were average-sized breasts--my favorite size, actually--somewhat flattened by her sports bra. Bike shorts are tight and are worn without underwear. Alas, the "chamois" cushioning pad inside obscures much of the labia, but a lovely pubic mound was evident above the chamois.

Men's bike shorts hide the genitals even less well than women's do. Serious bicyclists of both sexes have all tacitly agreed to pretend that their genital display is perfectly normal and unremarkable. I like the transgressive

ethos

a lot. God knows what the civilians think of us.

But back to my new acquaintance. Her legs and butt were lean but still feminine. The legs of a casual female athlete, with just enough muscle definition to make her look strong and healthy. Lovely... and don't underestimate how strong those little muscles are. As with most bicycling women, her sexiest, most attractive feature was the overall aura of fitness, health, and vitality she gave off.

"I'm Beth Gordon," she said, smiling as she returned the water bottle.

"Stephen Lancome."

One of her problems, she explained, is that this isn't her bike but a loaner from a friend of a friend. She had smashed up her racy, carbon-fiber Bianchi but good--possibly beyond repair--in a mishap during a training ride with "the guys."

It could happen to anyone. A brief lapse of concentration; maybe your front wheel touches the rear wheel of the bike in front of you; you go careening and then people are helping you get up off the pavement. She had hurt her spine in the mishap too, but--unlike the Bianchi--her spine was recovering.

"Ouch!" I said. "I too have made an unplanned dismount or two. Thank God for helmets, at least."

"Amen," she said. "Anyway, this old ten-speed is nothing like my late, lamented, but it has a certain charm, and it fits, and for now my body just wants a slow, relaxing ride--not the racing-around I used to do. Nothing very strenuous for awhile longer. But I don't like these old-timey Schrader valves on the tubes." Her old and inexpensive Japanese bike used inner tubes with automobile-type air valves, not the thinner Presta valves high-end street bikes use.

"I packed a spare tube and a couple of CO2 cartridges in case I got a flat. Which somehow I did. My CO2 pump unit turns out not to work so well with Schrader valves, and it leaked out more gas than it put into the tube. Just doing my part to increase global warming! Long story short, I'm out of CO2, and my tire is still too flat to ride. My housemate is tied up this afternoon, so she can't come pick me up, and anyway I have only a vague sense of exactly where we are and no idea where the next street crossing might be...."

Beth was getting worked up. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder to help settle her down but decided that that might just alarm her.

"'You're in luck' would be overstating the case," I said, "but I do have a hand pump with me. It's set up for Presta, but I think I can switch it to Schrader."

Her eyes lit up. She reached out and touched the back of my hand: a sweet gesture. "Thank you, Stephen."

"We'll have to share the pumping, if your back doesn't object. Getting any kind of pressure out of that thing is a bear."

"Deal!" she said.

I retrieved the small hand pump from my rack-top bag. Just as I recalled, you could switch it from Presta to Schrader by unscrewing part of the nozzle, flipping it over, and screwing it back in. The pump was a thin cylinder about a foot long. The nozzle was built into one end; the other end was the handle. You pulled the handle back another six inches, then you pushed it in again.

We sat on the dirt. I screwed the nozzle onto the valve stem and started pumping. The first 25 strokes were easy, then each stroke got harder. Beth took over at about 60. We swapped the pump back and forth until finally the tire felt firm enough to roll.

"What would you say?" she asked, squeezing the sidewall. "Forty-five, fifty pounds?"

"Forty-five, anyway," I agreed. "Good enough for the trail. Which way are you headed?" She pointed westwards.

"Great," I said. "I'll come with, if you're in the mood for company. A few miles ahead we can get off the trail and go into Andover. There's a garage there on Route 6--you'll see it from the trail. I'm sure they'd be glad to give an attractive young lady a free fill-up. Probably some more water for your bottle and use of their bathroom too if you play your cards right."

"Attractive and young maybe. Also dusty, sweaty, and I can't vouch for my deodorant."

"You're fine," I said. "Let's get the bikes ready to go. Then why don't we relax for a couple minutes and have a snack. I've got some roasted almonds and another bottle of ice water. We can rinse our hands with what's left in my old bottle."

"Sounds nice. I've got some dried cranberries."

Beth commenced reinstalling her wheel and putting away her tools. I returned the pump to my top bag, stashed her punctured tube and spent CO2 cartridges in one pannier and extracted a cold water bottle from the other. I could hear that it still had ice. I grabbed the almonds too.

Standing for a few minutes felt good, on the little bridge, my back to the side of my bicycle. Beth walked up, bag of dried cranberries in hand, looking much happier and more relaxed than before. She glanced downwards in the general direction of my shorts. "You're built unusually long, aren't you," she said. It wasn't a question.

For once, I got the joke immediately. "You're referring to my chainstays, I take it?"

"Obviously."

"It's not obvious at all, silly girl," I replied. "I'm just cold from all the ice water."

She grinned, pleased that I had responded well to her risque joke. The chainstays are the thin tubes of the bike's frame running from the crank back to the rear axle. Mine were indeed a couple inches longer than average, giving the bike a long wheelbase. You could see that at a glance if you knew where to look: the three-inch gap between the rear tire and the seat tube. Beth knew where to look.

She stood next to me and studied my bike. "Beautiful machine," she said. "Reynolds tubing, beautiful brazing and hand-filing everywhere, braze-ons galore, classic half-step-plus-granny triple crank, bar-end shifters, Cinelli bars. And somebody tossed the stock saddle and put on a Brooks. Jesus, somebody had good taste in bicycles."

"My father. My late father."

"What is it?"

"Model 728. Even my mechanic had never heard of it. Trek's flagship touring bike for one year. They made it only in 1982."

"It's lovely. I know you'll take care of it. Let's sit."

In the unlikely event somebody wanted to appeal to an English professor, she could imitate Beth for sure. Articulate, fluent with words, clever, witty, perceptive, far from prudish, apparently well-educated, able to connect multiple ideas together gracefully--those qualities will get you much further than big breasts or even physical beauty.

Not that Beth was sorely lacking in the beauty department, either. Once her back finished healing and she got back on a lightweight racing bike, I doubt I'd be able to keep up with her. In the meantime, I thought, she'd probably make a nice biking buddy, maybe even turn into a friend. I liked her a good deal already. Ann would like her too.

Beth and I sat on the bridge, side by side, our feet dangling over the creek below, eating almonds and dried cranberries and sipping water. Two guys on bikes passed us carefully, slowing down to see if we needed help, then waving as they accelerated away. They were the first new people I had seen since I stopped.

Beth put her arm around my shoulder, so I reached and held her far hip. A little more intimate than I expected, but I didn't feel like complaining.

"Ten minutes before you stopped," she said, "three boy-racer types zoomed by on trail bikes. There I was, bike upside down on the edge of the trail, front wheel in my lap, unhappy look on my face I'm sure. They didn't even wave, let alone slow down, let alone stop to help."

"I know," I said. "A lot of racers are like that. Every jaunt has to be a training ride. All that counts is going up that hill a half-a-mile an hour faster, getting around that corner a second sooner. Too much testosterone or something.... No offense. I wasn't including you."

"You should. I was pretty much the same way, much of the time. I still love that technical, competitive style of riding. But I had forgotten that other styles are very nice too. It's been years since I've just poked along, enjoying the road, the smells, the sun shining through the trees, the little wooden bridges. Like today. To say nothing of sharing cranberries and almonds with a handsome stranger."

I was going to make a crack about the quality of her ophthalmologist but decided not to break the mood. So I smiled at her, acknowledging the compliment.

"Look Stephen," she continued, "I'm a good bicyclist and a strong, capable woman. I've been in much worse pickles than having a flat tire on a beautiful summer day, and I've landed on my feet every time except that once. I was perfectly capable of getting myself home safe and sound today all on my own."

"I know that, Beth. You were not a damsel in distress, and I am not a strong shining knight who rescued you. I can see your strength and your smarts, and your poise too, and I admire them."