Maternity Leave (3 page)

My friends and I went to the Dubliner, an Irish pub that sells beer by the liter. I generally drink two beers at the Dubliner, a reasonable number, but a bit excessive when you look at the size of a two-liter bottle of soda. While I was at the bar ordering my second liter, I overheard a guy quoting
Tommy Boy
. It was like hearing a Shakespearian sonnet. I turned around. He was tall, no ring on the left hand, two days beard growth. A little on the hairy side, but attractive enough. I finished the
Tommy Boy
quote for him. “Try association. Like uh…let’s say the average person uses ten percent of their brain. How much do you use? One and a half percent. The rest is clogged with malted hops and bong resin.”

“Hi, I’m Paul.”

“Jenna, nice to meet you. I also do
Happy Gilmore, Groundhog Day,
and
Super Troopers
.”

“Wow, I’ve always wanted to date the female equivalent of Rainman.”

“You found her,” I said. “I was about to buy a drink, but it would be so much more meaningful if you bought it for me.”

Paul put my beer on his tab and we walked outside. From the conversation, I garnered that he recently moved from Minnesota to Tampa to take a job as an engineer. At some point during the night, I mentioned cycling. Paul told me that he was a cyclist too, though he stopped riding in college to play varsity rugby, the only sport more marginalized in the U.S. than cycling. At the end of the night, we exchanged numbers and gave each other an awkward hug and kiss on the cheek goodbye. We planned to go for a ride at some point the next week. It was the first time in years that I wasn’t dreading a date.

I was a bit hung-over at the start of the road race the next morning. Fortunately, I had raced like this before and knew what to expect. The important thing is to sweat out the booze while hydrating. Once the fluids are exchanged, the carbohydrates from the beer kick in and the end of the race is smooth sailing.

Brenda lined up next to me and spoke her first words ever directed at me.

“You smell like a brewery.”

She looked even shorter standing next to me than on the bike, where she is by far the worst draft of the
peloton
, as riding behind her is not much different than riding directly in the wind. I’m five-two and not used to looking down on anyone. Brenda couldn’t be more than four-eleven, though more filled out and muscular than me, especially in her upper body. The reason I climb so well is that my quads and hamstrings are as big as tree trunks, but the rest of me is a rail. It’s disproportionate, but perfect for having enough muscle strength to push my slight body against gravity. Brenda is built like a sprinter, but on a smaller scale. Her tiny but powerful stature is how she is able to muscle through bikes that are inches apart, and accelerate for the win.

I had hoped her first words to me would be something pleasant like, “Hello,” but given her hostile introduction, I responded in kind.

“Thanks, it’s my new perfume. Want some?” I said with my most charming smile as I offered her some sweat from my arm.

“You’re fucking nasty!” she squealed.

The maneuver wasn’t really that gross, as I didn’t actually touch her, and even if I did, she was already sweaty from her warm-up and it was only going to get worse. Florida is so hot and humid that for at least six months of the year, sweat from the rider in front of you drips onto you as you draft behind them. Three months of the year, it’s so hot that this sweat is actually refreshing.

After the gun went off, I sat comfortably in the pack, not expending any energy. Sammy went off in the front of the pack and I let her go. The first half of the course was flat. I didn’t plan on making a move until the hills kicked in.

When we hit the first hill, I exploded out of the pack. Not surprisingly, Brenda was glued to my wheel, getting the best possible draft. As we crested the first hill, she and I had a sizable gap on the rest of the main field, except for Sammy who was still ahead. After the descent, Brenda sat in my draft without pulling through as I pedaled into the wind through the next flat section of the course at about eighty percent effort. I had to go hard enough to distance myself from the pack of chasing girls, but not so hard that I was too tired to catch Brenda if she stopped drafting off me and tried to get away. Technically, Brenda was under no obligation to help me work by sharing the time in the wind. Her team strategy was quite straightforward and customary: helping her teammate by sitting in my draft and staying fresh. If I slowed down in order to stop giving Brenda a free ride, then the pack would catch Brenda and me as Sammy continued to put time into all of us. By continuing to chase Sammy, I was forced to do all the work while Brenda stayed fresh in my draft. The bitch of it was that once we caught Sammy, Brenda’s move would be to accelerate on her rested legs and leave me in the dust.

While Brenda’s strategy was technically correct, it was ridiculous for her to act like a team player. First, everyone knew that Brenda would not hesitate to chase down a teammate at crunch time. Second, Brenda knew that it was only a matter of time before we caught her 150- pound teammate. When sprinting, extra weight helps, to an extent, by cranking out more wattage. However, when going up an incline, extra weight keeps you down. Sammy, weighing in at forty pounds more than Brenda and me, would never win a solo breakaway on a hilly course. Therefore, it would behoove Brenda to help me distance us from the rest of the pack, as it was a matter of time and gravity before we caught Sammy.

By the end of the first sixteen-mile loop, I had Sammy in my sights. We scooped her up just as we passed the start/finish line for the first lap. Brenda accelerated away from me just as I expected. I was able to close the gap without much effort and within seconds, we had put fifty yards into Sammy. When Brenda finally turned around and saw me on her wheel she stopped pedaling, thereby ending my free ride and giving Sammy an opportunity to catch back up. I rode in front of Brenda and Sammy and took a long pull into the wind, then moved out of the way to give them an opportunity to contribute to keeping the pace high. Neither of them moved forward. If they just worked with me, the three of us were guaranteed to fill out the podium. However, Brenda obviously felt more comfortable letting the field catch us and winning the field sprint. I moved back in front of Brenda and Sammy and set a hard tempo pedaling into the wind. My plan was to stay ahead of the main field, but not kill myself, until the last lap. Sammy and Brenda’s other teammates were “blocking” for them in the main field, that is, setting a tempo hard enough to discourage attacks, but easy enough so they wouldn’t catch Brenda and Sammy. Thus, as long as I had Brenda and Sammy with me, their teammates were, by proxy, helping me out as well. As a result, I opted to keep my pace until the last lap, where I planned to attack Brenda and Sammy by accelerating on the first of four hills located a mile before the finish line. Essentially, I was gambling that a tired Jenna could beat a fresh Brenda on a tough course. If not, at least I’d be in second place because there was no way Sammy would make it over the steep hill at the finish with us. The alternative was to engage in a field sprint with sixty women.

Technically, I am a fantastic sprinter in that I can accelerate quickly and hold my speed longer than most cyclists. Unfortunately, I’m terrified of field sprints. This fear is about as rational as a quarterback who is afraid of getting clobbered on every play. That is to say, completely rational, but not very practical. My phobia of field sprints originated during my first race. I had positioned myself perfectly for the sprint. At one kilometer to go I was in the draft behind two rows of cyclists. There was a hole opening on the left that I planned to charge through once I reached 500 meters to go. Unfortunately, at 800 meters to go, the girl in front of me fell, taking me down with her. The only parts of me that hit the asphalt were my nose and mouth. My helmet would have been really hurt if my face weren’t there to protect it. I broke my nose, lost six teeth and developed a severe bout of “Bike Tourette Syndrome;” an ailment whereby a cyclist freaks the fuck out and shouts obscenities every time they think they’re going to crash due to a scary noise or sight, such as the rustle of leaves or another cyclist’s slight deviation from a straight path. I’ve trained myself to stop freaking out, but still fear mixing it up in bunch sprints.

But now my gamble worked, just barely. I charged the first of the four hills just before the finish line at ninety-five percent effort and relaxed during the descents. On the fourth hill, which was the steepest, I stood up and sprinted as hard as possible. I looked behind me as I went over the hill and noticed a gap between Brenda and me. I rode down the hill and to the finish line as fast as I could, pumping my legs and also moving the bike back and forth beneath me with my arms for extra power. Brenda used all of her strength to get back onto my wheel, but she ran out of road before she could swing around me for the win. She punched her arm in the air in frustration, which is as big a temper tantrum as one can throw while sitting on a bike traveling at over forty miles an hour.

Immediately after my race ended, I started racing Danny’s thirty- plus master’s age group race. It was the last race of the season, so there was no need for me to tack on extra miles, but it was a nice day and I was on a high from my race. I’m not thirty years old yet, but the race organizers allow women to race the men’s age-group categories up to ten years beyond their age. Since turning thirty last year, Danny alternates between racing with the local pros or racing with the age groupers, depending on which race is more convenient for his schedule. Calling thirty-plus racers “Masters” is absurd, as they are in their prime and nearly as fast as the pros.

Danny is six-three, which is above average among the general population but downright huge for a cyclist. He’s thin, but with muscular legs, which he shaves as all competitive cyclists do. His straight hair is brown, not gelled and usually in need of a trim, so the ends of it poke out of the holes in his helmet and blow in the wind. This, along with his height, makes him easy to locate in a pack of sixty to one hundred cyclists and I usually seek out his wheel for a safe, full draft. I pulled out of his race after completing two of the sixteen-mile loops because I had to drive home, shower, and grab my dog before going to my parents’ house for dinner. Between my race and Danny’s race, I had pedaled nearly ninety miles before heading home.

* * *

Sunday night is family dinner night at the Rosen residence. My parents, Michael and Geri, live in North Tampa in the house where I grew up. I live twenty minutes away in South Tampa, as do my older brother John and his wife Julie. The remainder of the family consists of my younger brother Jason, and John and Julie’s four dogs.

The
Sopranos
-like family dinner night is part of my dad’s grand scheme to convert from Jewish to Italian. Unfortunately for him, he’s one of the few Jews who can’t pass for Italian, as he is very tall and Aryan-looking, even as his blond hair fades whiter and whiter. He lives his life by the Godfather mantra that the family is everything and you don’t go against it. As he ages, he’s started to take the Godfather thing a little far. I’m pretty sure he’s the only accountant who insists on facing all doors and windows in an Italian restaurant and having his children kiss his ring as a greeting. Still, I enjoy the Sunday night dinners whenever I’m in town and had missed the previous three weeks of dinners because of race conflicts.

When I got there, dinner was ready but Jason wasn’t there yet. I grabbed a drink and sat in the kitchen to shoot the shit with my parents. They asked me what I did for the weekend and I told them two races, one of which I won. With that, my dad stormed out of the room. My mom, who at the moment preferred to be Switzerland, said nothing. I took my drink and went to my parents’ backyard to play with the dogs.

Ever since my face-plant, my dad has become staunchly anti-cycling. He refuses to contribute in any way toward my “death-wish” of a hobby. My mom, who is still pissed that I lost the teeth that she and my dad paid a fortune to straighten, takes his side on the issue. In addition to giving me the silent treatment every time I mention the word “race,” my parents have started cutting out newspaper articles citing cycling deaths to convince me to give up the bike. I know cycling is dangerous, but the statistics are very inflated. The census has a loose definition of “cyclist.” It bothers me when my parents find a newspaper article that says that a “cyclist” was killed on Martin Luther King Boulevard at three in the morning. My definition of “cyclist” is very narrow and sure as shit does not include bums on forty dollar bikes at three in the morning without helmets or lights. If I were to keep a “cycling” death tally, it would also exclude people who think ten miles is far. At a minimum, a “cyclist” should own clipless pedals, spandex and detach the spoke protector from behind their cassette. A twelve-year-old riding a bike to his friend’s house is not a cyclist, but rather, a kid with a bike. Likewise, the following people are not cyclists: someone on a bike delivering a pizza, someone who rides because their driving privileges are revoked, or someone who watches television at the gym on a recumbent stationary bike.

After giving my parents ten minutes to cool down, I walked back into the house just as Jason was walking in the door. Jason is a senior in high school, whereas John and I are twenty-nine and twenty-eight, respectively. John and I believe that the age gap is a strong indicator that Jason was an accident. As my mother was giving Jason a hard time for being late and ruining dinner, my dad walked in and started in on him. “For Christ’s sake Jason.”

It’s safe to say my dad does not get Jason. John and I quickly took bets on whether he was going to start in on Jason’s baggy jeans and backwards baseball cap, or the fact that he reeked of cigarettes. I bet on the cigarettes and won.

My parents, especially my dad, are very anti-cigarette. By comparison, even marijuana is somewhat acceptable. Every time my brother walks into a room, he reeks of smoke, no matter how much he tries to cover it up with mints and cologne. I only swing by my parents’ house a few times a month, but I’d memorized the ritual that was about to begin. First, my dad will accuse Jason of smoking and Jason will deny it. Jason’s defense is always unique: that he was in a car or house where someone, but not him, was smoking. After the arguing comes the test, which involves my dad smelling Jason’s left hand. Jason is notoriously anti-hygiene. He never washes his hands, brushes his teeth or wears deodorant. As a result, he never washes away the cigarette smell from his hands, which seems like the obvious solution to me. Another escape for Jason would be for him to smoke with his right hand, as my dad only smells his left hand. Jason has never tried either of these options. He is a smart kid, so I attribute this to the fact that he doesn’t give a shit. Every time my dad smells Jason’s left hand, it inevitably reeks of cigarettes. This causes my dad to become doubly pissed at Jason, for lying on top of smoking.