Love Bike Built for Two

It’s been a tough couple of months. Long hours at work because my biggest client was pushed into bankruptcy. Business travel. Then, last Saturday, just as my wife and I were going to bed, a teen-aged son home from college for the summer stumbled in drunk, spoiling the fruits of the marital bed once again.

And each month, of course, there is the Presbyterian “free space”–sort of like the middle spot on a Bingo card–where she gets to fill in the blank of our weekends with–nothing.

We were starting to snap at each other, which only hastened the downward spiral. Finally, after a teary conclusion to a knock-down, drag-out argument, we realized what the problem was and made each other a promise; this weekend, come hell or high water, we’d get to know each other–in the Biblical sense–again.

“It’s been so long, I’m not sure I even remember how to do it,” my wife said with a giggle as she crawled under the covers.

“You know what they say,” I said. “It’s like riding a bike–once you learn how, you never forget.”

“You’re the bike man,” she said, seductively. “Show me how.”

She was right about that. There’s nothing I like better than a twenty-mile ride on the Sedona hybrid bike that I got at a bargain price because it had been recalled by some nanny-state government agency for safety reasons.

“Okay,” I said with a sly smile. “The first thing you have to do is check the equipment.”

“I thought the man carried the equipment,” she cooed softly, slipping into double entendres.

“Not just the frame,” I said. “You’ve got to be inflated to the correct air pressure or you won’t have a very comfortable ride.”

She was confused. “Okay–how do we do that?”

“You need to be at about 50 pounds per square inch. Here, drink this,” I said as I handed her a quart bottle of Polar Lime-Flavored Seltzer.

“That’s a lot to drink,” she said. “Are we splitting this?”

“No, I’ve got one of my own.” We sat upright and guzzled the frothy stuff down, belching from time to time to allow the larger bubbles to escape. When we were through, she started to slide under the covers again.

“Not so fast,” I said. “You can’t wear those.”

She had on her cotton pajamas with the little coffee cups all over them, which she says remind her of what she has to look forward to on Sunday morning when her Saturday night . . . uh . . . “chore” is complete.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“I’m only thinking of your health and safety,” I said. “Your top should be something brightly-colored, for high visibility. From the waist down, spandex bike shorts. The tight compression helps support your thigh muscles.”

“If you say so,” she said, as she wriggled into the sleeker, sexier outfit.

“There’s nothing worse than blowing out a hamstring when you’re halfway through your ride,” I said.

We kissed for awhile, then I made my move. “Hold it right there, buster,” she said, stopping me with her hand against my chest.

“But–I thought we agreed,” I began, before she interrupted.

“You made a right-hand turn without signaling,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I can never remember which is which.”

“It’s easy,” she said. “I learned it in a grade school safety assembly. Just remember–Robert Louis Stevenson.”

 

“What does a Scottish novelist, poet, essayist and travel writer have to do with bicycle safety?”

“Use his initials as a memory aid–hand up, R for right turn; hand out, L for left turn; hand down, S for stop.”

“Hey, that’s pretty handy–thanks a lot,” I said, and we resumed our cuddling.

“I’ve missed this so much,” she said as things grew hotter. “Take me,” she whispered finally. “I’m yours.”

“Uh, you’re forgetting one thing,” I said.

“What now?” she asked, sounding a little exasperated.

“Here,” I said, pulling a new Trek Vapor 3 WSD women’s bike helmet from beneath the bed.

“Do I have to?” she whined, as I strapped on her headgear. “They make me look like such a dork!”

“Sorry, sweetie. In Massachusetts, bike helmets are mandatory during domestic sex.”

“You’re not going to try one of your crazy positions on me, are you?”

I propped myself up on one elbow and looked deeply into her eyes.

“If I was going to try the Mongolian Cartwheel, I would have brought the trick ramp to bed, sugar.”

“Okay,” she said, mollified. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” I said.

“Love you too,” she replied.

We leaned in to kiss, and our safety helmets tapped with a muted “klunk”.

“Shhh,” she said. “The kids will hear.”