Maternity Leave (13 page)

Racing with the CAT 3 men put the field at over 100 riders. While this would make the race more dangerous than an all-women’s race, I preferred it because my chicken-shit sprinting style did not come into play. When racing with the boys, I often win merely by staying within the draft of the
peloton
when all the other women get dropped.

A
peloton
is a pack of riders that looks magnetized together because they’re all drafting off of each other. When the pace is relaxed, there are several rows and columns of riders that look like a big colorful moving blob from an aerial view. However, as the pace picks up, everyone tries to avoid being in the wind by “sitting” on the wheel (in the draft) of the rider in front of them. This stretches the
peloton
to one long line of riders, with less than an inch in between the front and rear wheel separating the riders. When this happens, it’s important not only to stay on the wheel in front of you, but to make sure that the bike in front of you is on the wheel in front of it. If the bike in front of you gaps off the wheel in front of it, you, too, become gapped from the draft of the
peloton.
Cyclists do not appreciate closing a gap created by another cyclist and non-cyclists would be surprised at the hatred and cursing that can accompany the words, “Close that Gap!” If the gapper does not close the gap, the detached riders behind the gapper must do it; the sooner the better because a bigger gap translates into a more time in the wind to close it.

Because of my competitive nature, I treat every cycling ride with two or more people like it’s the Olympics, so I am accustomed to riding fast with the guys without getting dropped from the pack. Sometimes, because I’m not as aggressive at holding my place within the pack, I drift to the back too much, but I’m strong enough to close the gaps if the guys I’m drafting off of can’t hang in there. Because I’ve become skilled at hanging with the boys, it plays to my favor when race organizers combine the men’s and women’s races in an effort to save money.

The race did not go exactly as planned. Two miles into the course, I got a flat tire. I flagged down the wheel truck and changed my wheel quickly, then positioned myself within the draft of the wheel truck, hoping it would shield me from the wind and motor-pace me back up to the group. This is generally allowed as long as a rider is dropped because of mechanical difficulty rather than because the rider couldn’t hang in the race. Unfortunately, the ninety-year-old woman driving the wheel truck didn’t seem to know that her car could be of service to me by blocking the wind. To add insult to injury, she turned out to be the only ninety-year-old in Florida who drove faster than thirty miles an hour. She accelerated quickly up to fifty miles per hour, making it impossible for me to use the truck to catch the fast-moving
peloton
. I never caught up to the race. Not exactly the plan for my first race of the season.

After the race, I learned there were two professional female riders in the race and that they placed first and second. It was not uncommon for professional riders to travel to Florida and California in February to take advantage of early-season racing in the beautiful weather. I was enraged that I missed the opportunity to race with the pros on my home course.

The next day I fared a bit better. Sunday’s race was a fast, technical criterium course with eight turns. The course started out downhill, with a right turn after two blocks. Still full of unused energy after flatting out of the previous day’s race, I led into what I thought was the first corner. As it turned out, I turned a block early. I quickly made a U-turn, but the pack had already seen my error and hit the gas. Brenda, who showed up for this race, led the charge. When I finally caught up a few laps later, Brenda slowed down to call me a dumbass.

“I’m book smart,” I sneered back and then attacked. Two girls came with me, the two professional riders. Forty-five minutes into the race, the three of us lapped the field. When this happens, the entire field is put on the same lap, meaning the other riders would ride one lap less. Even though we were all together with the same number of laps remaining, the main
peloton
was now racing for fourth place and above, whereas the two pros and I were racing for first through third. I was happy to be guaranteed a podium spot, but disappointed that after being in a breakaway for the entire race, I had to compete in a field sprint with sixty women rather than a much safer three-up sprint. In true Jenna Rosen fashion, I shied away from the aggressive sprinting pack of women and placed last in the field sprint. Brenda “brass balls” Bowers won the field sprint after expertly maneuvering through the field, then sprinting up the middle with her elbows pointed outward at anyone who dared to get near her. Even though Brenda is a fast sprinter, it is her willingness to risk life and limb through a crowded
peloton
that generally nets her wins. Technically, I beat her since I was guaranteed a podium spot by virtue of lapping the field but, it was hard to get excited after coming in last place in a field sprint and third out of three on the race within the race.

I’m not a bad sport in that I won’t throw a temper tantrum and always congratulate the winner, but I HATE losing. I was not in a social mood after the race. Additionally, I had to get to the Rosen family dinner, so I took off in my car and asked Danny to grab my prize money for me. Once I left, I took out my frustration by racing everyone on the highway. Granted, none of the cars around me knew we were racing, but I needed a victory.

I don’t drive like a maniac because I have road rage, but because I’m bored and impatient unless I’m speeding and weaving in and out of traffic. Because this is my normal driving pattern, I feel safe running red lights and ignoring traffic signs. I figure that if I don’t get pulled over for driving seventy in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone, there probably aren’t any cops around to catch me running a red light. When there is too much traffic to run a red light, I get out of my car and press the cross walk button rather than wait for the light to change on its own. Patience is not my forte.

After exiting the highway, I sped along a two-lane street that was merging into one lane. My modus operandi for this scenario was to drive in the lane that was about to end until the last possible second, then merge over in front of all the drivers who merged early and were now sitting in traffic. Yes, I know I’m a dick. I passed at least thirty cars before the big orange water-filled road blocks began gradually closing down the right lane. At the last second, I started to merge towards the SUV next to me. The blonde driving it was on her cell phone, so I proceeded slowly, waiting for her to brake slightly so that I could jump in front of her.

I completely underestimated my adversary. Blonde SUV girl saw me, but didn’t budge. I had three choices: hit blonde SUV girl, hit the road blocks, or stop. Unfortunately, I had already hit my fourth road block before option “C” occurred to me. I slammed on my brakes; losing my third race of the weekend. While I was waiting for traffic to pass so I could merge safely, I tried to evaluate the damage to my car. This turned out to be impossible because my passenger side-view mirror was dangling from the side of the car. I planned to use the next red light to check out the dents that would no doubt complement my dangling mirror. However, I was afraid to get out of my car because blonde SUV girl, who was right next to me, spent the entire light-cycle laying on her horn and cursing me out. She had a point, I was driving like an ass.

Given the raging bitch in the SUV behind me and my pulverized car, I decided to drive conservatively the rest of the way home. It was only six miles and I drove it well except for cutting off a Hummer with a Gorrie Elementary School bumper sticker. I’m a Carrollwood Elementary Owl. Gorrie Cougars can suck it. Besides, I’m a bit put off by people who purchase a military tank in order to carry a kid and a soccer ball.

Once I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I got out to inspect the damage to my car. Besides the dangling rearview mirror, there were three identical dents spaced evenly apart. As I looked at the dents, I heard a voice shout, “Hi, Jennifer!”

Shit, it was David in his nut-hugging jogging shorts headed right for me. I tried to open the passenger-side door to hop inside and get my Empathy Belly, but the door wouldn’t open. I had dented the car in the perfect spot so that the “clamshell” doors on the passenger side of my Honda Element would never open again. With my back to David, I ran around to the other side of the car and grabbed the belly.

I was wearing short shorts and a tight top that bared a trace of my midriff. It was clear that I would have an extreme muffin top hanging out between my shirt and shorts once I added the Empathy Belly. Sure enough, there was a five inch gap of exposed fake stomach after I added the belly. I pulled my shirt down and my shorts up as high as they would go. The shorts were digging into my crotch and I am pretty sure I had some serious camel toe going. Unfortunately, I had to turn around and greet my boss.

“Hi, David.”

“Were you in an accident?”

Yes, Captain Obvious. “Just a little fender bender,” I replied.

“That’s not your fender.”

“You’re right. I mean just a little broadside collision.”

David said, “I think I saw you riding your bike the other day. I didn’t want to honk because I didn’t want you to fall. Then I realized it couldn’t be you, because the girl wasn’t pregnant.”

My heart started beating fast. I said, “Then it definitely wasn’t me. You can honk if you see me though. The chances of me falling as a result of you tooting your horn are less than zero.”

Just then my mom came out. “Oh. Hi, David.”

“Hi, Geri.”

I kept my back to my mom so that she couldn’t see my belly. Fortunately, my mom had heard enough about David to keep her distance and she just said, “Dinner’s ready.”

“I’ll be right in.”

David watched my mother a bit too closely as she went and said, “I don’t know if I ever told you, but your mother is a very sexy lady.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before. Thanks, I guess.”

David said bye and drove off. I came in just behind my mother.

“Jenna,” Mom said, “Is your side-view mirror dangling?”

I looked at the dangling side-view mirror through the window and said, “No.”

“Okay.” My mom said, and went inside. My mom believes everything my brothers or I say, regardless of evidence to the contrary. She believes my brothers because that’s what Jewish moms do. She believes me because I was an honest and literal child and she has not yet realized that I have outgrown that stage of my life.

When I was a child, my parents, like everyone’s parents, told me not to drive in a car without a seatbelt. One time, my mom and dad had to take John from school to the hospital because John head-butted a soccer goal post. They sent our neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, to pick me up from school. Mrs. Thompson’s car was at least thirty years old and didn’t have seatbelts. When I noticed this, I opened the door and got out. Mrs. Thompson asked where I was going and I told her that I wasn’t allowed to ride in a car without seatbelts. Mrs. Thompson told me that my parents would make an exception this time, but I wouldn’t budge. This was in the days before cell phones. After a one hour stand-off, Mrs. Thompson had enough and went home without me.

Three hours later, my mom picked me up and drove me the three miles to our house. Instead of using this occasion to educate me about logic, deductive reasoning, and the relative safety concerns of a three mile car trip without a seatbelt versus being alone at night on the campus of a pedophile-magnet elementary school, my mom focused on my obedience and honesty. Thus, when I said my rearview mirror was fine, she believed me and walked back towards the house. Disaster averted.

* * *

In March, I finally remembered to bring Sonny’s chocolates into my office for a food experiment. Julie had bought some doggy chocolates for Sonny for Chanukah. Sonny has a weak stomach and gets gastrointestinal distress anytime he eats anything other than Eukanuba dog food. This distress manifests itself in a bad case of the middle-of-the-night farts. Sonny’s routine is that he farts, sniffs his ass, then runs all over the house crying, before clawing at his doggy door. What’s great is that he acts this way even when I fart. This is funny during the day, but at night, it interferes with my sleep. As a result, I keep him on a very strict diet that does not include gourmet doggy chocolate.

The doggy chocolates came in a gold box with a ribbon, just like expensive human chocolate and looked like real chocolates. I placed them in the kitchen and walked back to my desk, eagerly awaiting the interoffice emails criticizing the person who put doggy chocolates in the kitchen. The emails never came. A few hours later, I walked back to the kitchen, a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. The chocolates were gone. I checked the trash. The box was in there, but there were no half-chewed then spit-out chocolates to be found. People ate them without complaint. So much for creating controversy. I walked back to my desk and realized that it was now official that I work with animals. My only hope was that David ate one.

Speak of the devil. “Jenna, do you have a minute?”

“Sure thing, David.”

“Great. Have you spoken with Bob in our Alabama office about the Champions Bar case?”

“No.”

“It’s set for trial in a few months.”

“It will settle,” I said confidently.

“You still need to be prepared, and since it’s an Alabama case, Bob needs to be prepared, too. I’m not licensed to practice there.”

“We have the least amount of damages of the six co-plaintiffs, we can just tag along.”

“No, we need to be ready. Let’s go back to my office and get Bob on speaker phone now.”

David dialed Bob’s extension using speaker phone. When you call another extension at Johnson Smith, you only have to dial the extension and your initials show up on the other person’s caller ID instead of a phone number. This works between the Tampa and Alabama office as well.