Bite Me. Please.

green grass field near body of water during daytime

Szabolcs Tosh, via Unsplash

We grabbed the bikes provided by our hosts and headed down the paved part of Pritchard Road in the rolling terrain of the Gatineau Hills, north of Ottawa, in Quebec. My bike was a heavy, three-speed with coaster brakes. Remember those? You pedal backwards to make your bike stop. A quaint old thing. Like me.

No sooner did we turn onto Lac Bernard Road when the first hill rose, and halfway up, my legs shuddering, I dismounted and pushed that MOFO to the top. My heart was going nuts and I was panting like a sheepdog in the desert, all tongue and sweat. Ahead was brief plateau, a welcome downhill and then, bien sur, another incline.

I coasted down pressing backwards on the brakes occasionally to slow the rapid descent and at the bottom pumped my legs like I was turbocharged to power up the next hill. I gave it everything. I stood out of the saddle, leaned into the pedals, and used my weight to keep the wheels turning. My husband was already at the top when I bailed one third of the way, my heart jackhammering and my legs turning to gelatin. Pissed at being suckered by a second hill, I bellowed at my husband “Not doing another goddamn hill riding this monster.”

A gallant man who never swears, he offered to trade bikes. Although mine was a “girl” bike and his a “boy’s”, his had 18 speeds and mine only had three. (If that isn’t an effing metaphor for how men and women get through life, I don’t know what is.) We stopped, switched bikes, adjusted the seat height, and admired the century old farmhouse beside us while I caught my breath.

Farms, don’t you know, generally have farm dogs which are not always friendly. They’re there to defend the chickens and cows and sheep, not make nice with winded cyclists. Sure enough, a lean, fit Labrador Retriever appeared from the side of the house and trotted straight at us, nose twitching and tail straight behind him. He cut through the roadside ditch aiming at me, all business. Of course.

“Hello, boy. Who’s a good dog?” my husband crooned at him. The dog whiffed his back tire, haughtily ignored me, and then carried on across the road into a field of purple loosestrife, driven by some inner purpose. Perhaps there was a chicken coop that needed his attention. Anyway, we were spared his jaws. I’d hoped for a violent assault, perhaps his teeth breaking my skin, rendering me an actual bloody mess and not just an emotional one,  which would have spared me from the next volley of hills. But since I now had a bike with adequate sprockets to climb the hills ahead, I felt grudgingly obliged to give it one more shot.

Listen. I am easily defeated. I know this about myself. My psyche is littered with enough thrown towels to supply the Hilton Hotel chain.  I’m not afraid of an adventure, but I like to set out with the right tools to handle the situation. You wouldn’t go tobogganing with skipping ropes, would you?  This is how I partly dealt with my impending failure – blame the bike – but I went for the a more spectacular kill with an interior cat-o-nine-tails lashing.

“Woman,” I said, “you are pathetic. You need to work out more. Press some pounds. Pump some metal. Grind. Never mind that you’re 61, you sad excuse for an adventurer. Ignore the effing hip bursitis, you weenie. I don’t care about your creaky knees, turd face.”

When I finished, the bike weighed even more with its paniers fully loaded with emotional baggage and about to split open bulging with the shame of defeat.

I suggested to my husband we turn around, return to our woodsy Airstream trailer getaway and drink the cheap pink wine I’ve grown so fond of lately. In a sad attempt to tempt, I winked at him through my gritted teeth and furrowed brow. He got the message but chose to ignore it because this man that I love knows me too well. He knew that I’d feel a lot better about myself if we finished the ride.

We pushed on. The next ten hills were easier on the 18 speed. We breezed past sheep farms in pretty valleys, breathing a blur of country scents – wild raspberries, Joe Pye Weed, new cut hay, manure, pine sap, and hot gravel. The mental self flagellation stopped; my laundry room ego cleansed with the fresh scent of success.

Later, the pink wine went down well. I patted myself on my sweaty back for my astonishing strength and forbearance – and my husband’s.

The sky drew in, the stars sparkled, the coyotes howled, and we went to bed, happy.

30 thoughts on “Bite Me. Please.

    • One of the things I like about your writing r.D. is your wordplay and you’ve just given me another example to enjoy – “savor speed”. Wonderful! Thanks for the kind compliment.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Such a good read. “(If that isn’t an effing metaphor for how men and women get through life, I don’t know what is.)” WORD.
    I don’t like high hills on a bike and I don’t like steps in the forest. I love hiking and I don’t think hiking should ever involve a staircase. I once climbed an inverted incline in the Rockies. I was 22-freakin-2. I am 40-freakin-6 and I don’t have anything to prove. I perhaps never had your ambition. You may be shorting yourself some credit, Susanne.


  2. This was great Susanne made me smile again! I can just see you getting so frustrated lol!! The temper I recall just makes me laugh. Good on you for finishing the ride. A toast to your birthday today. Have a good one!

    Liked by 2 people

    • Ya. that temper still pops up from time to time though on this occasion I was feeling more aggrieved that he got the easier bike. I had a nice birthday, full of ice cream and fancy donuts and pink wine. I’ve become a tacky old lady – and loving it.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I know I haven’t ridden a bike since my 30’s so take all the Kudos you can get. I love your writing and since I’m a short story reader (minuscule attention span) you could pass many of these stories off to me to keep me chuckling all night. I love short stories like this one full of colorful words. I use them liberally. This was a breath of fresh air.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you for those kind words, Marlene! I seem to have an attention span like yours, too. I am best at reading and writing short stories and get bored very quickly. My husband just finished reading David Copperfield – all 817 pages. Can you imagine?

      Liked by 1 person

  4. If I had an ‘Idol’ chain, you’d move up another ten notches. Last time I rode a bike (it was even electric!) I fell off three times…on FLAT land! But that’s a tale for another time. A favorite line to add to ohhh so many… “My psyche is littered with enough thrown towels to supply the Hilton Hotel chain.” OK…now you’ve inspired me to clean out my ‘closet’…yet again. It’s amazing the stuff that gets shoved to the back 😉 Be well, Susanne. Keep pumping 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • My balance is holding up pretty well perhaps because I still insist on ice skating in the winter. I’m really not in bad shape but I’m definitely more of a flat road cyclist. Do tell the tale of the electric bike, Donna and forget about the darn closet.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Wonderful! But my first question is whatever were you thinking to go for a bike ride in the mountains??Good for you for hanging in, though!! I was afraid I was about to read that you’d had a heart attack!!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Your groom is clearly a gentleman, and your prose is great fun to read. I’m not sure about your psyche, m’dear, but I will stand in line to buy your book if/when you knuckle down and write it. [smile] Alas, I don’t believe there’s an 18-gear apparatus available for storytellers. (But you don’t need one!)

    Liked by 2 people

    • Aren’t you clever to have figured out my metaphor. The book is more or less written but it has many problems and I’m bored with it. I’m recalling high school and university when the green hills would beckon so I’d wrap up my assignment as fast as I could be just to get the hell outside. Naturally, I’d receive my usual B grade. Time to move on to something else. More short stories, I reckon. I don’t have the drive or discipline for a novel. Here. Catch my towel!

      Liked by 3 people

Comments are closed.