Keeping Up with Him
Keeping Up with Him
BY DEBRA BAUKNEY MOSS
It pains me greatly to admit I took up cycling to avoid housework. Every Sunday, after hours of tapping his lactic acid reserves with the guys, my husband, Hunter, would roll in, drop his sweaty clothes on the just-cleaned floor, trash the bathroom with a long shower, and destroy the kitchen making a breakfast big enough for 10 men. Then he would beg and barter for a leg massage and fall into a 2-hour nap on clean sheets. One day, I said to myself, "This stinks."
It occurred to me that if I started cycling, I could avoid Sunday dates with the laundry hamper. And wouldn't it be cool to eat like that? Was I the only misinformed cretin on the planet who fantasized about romantic sunset rides with a fanatic cyclist?
Knowing that I've nursed a pack-a-day habit since age 15, Hunter realized the shape my lungs weren't in and chuckled whenever I used the words "me" and "bike" together. When he could stand my pestering no longer, he leveled with me: "You'd never be able to keep up with us." When he saw my face go from hurt to furious, he caved. "Okay. Quit smoking and we'll buy you a bike." Lord have mercy on my tar deposits.
We lived on Saint Croix then. The Caribbean island hosts a triathlon known for a 700-foot vertical climb. The first time I clawed my way to the top of it my lungs felt like I'd inhaled butane and sucked a lit match. Hunter said, "Hey, you didn't vomit!" So much for romantic fantasy.
Many hills later, though no longer coughing up a lung, I still could not keep up with the guys. Sometimes, I just turned around and went home in disgrace. My husband would ride with me only when he was (a) nursing an injury, (b) needing a recovery spin, or (c) paying off a massage barter. I took whatever crumbs I could get.
I eventually got good ("for a woman"), only I had traded the boredom of ironing Hunter's shirts for the frustration of trying to keep his butt in view. He advised me to ride with women, but Saint Croix's roads are narrow, winding, and steep--too intimidating for all but the fearless. What few women rode were intrepid mavericks. Short of buying a Harley, I could not foresee how to feed my addiction for flying down long hills with the wind in my face. I came close to retiring.
It was the thought of returning to the Sunday cleaning routine that drove me to subterfuge--like the "tortoise-and-the-hare" ride. Hunter and I would agree on a route, then I would sneak out of the house ahead of him. When he discovered I'd left, he'd race to catch me. He got his power ride, and I pushed hard to lengthen the time till he reeled me in. Before long, sometimes he couldn't.
Together, we also instituted a short "loop-de-loop" course. Each time our paths would merge, we agreed he would not speed up and I would try to hang with him as long as my short little legs would hold out. Once I dropped, he'd speed up quietly on the next circuit and pinch me.
While these games hardly met the criteria of romance, they helped alleviate some of the frustration that was spoiling cycling for me, and it made us both better cyclists. Then one day, Hunter kept looking behind him and I was right on his wheel, mile after mile, with a huge grin on my face.
Over time, I think Hunter actually began to enjoy riding with his wife. Perhaps cycling together rekindled some of the fun he used to
have before speed and pain became his objectives. My reward for refusing to give up was recapturing the freedom I'd felt as a 3-year-old, zooming down the sidewalk on my first bike. It also gave me back my health.
Now, if I could only get Hunter to iron my shirts.
