Chapter 3

There is something to be said for self punishment if you are a cyclist. That something is usually: Ouch! Here I was on a solo ride through the valley, a sharp headwind was blowing into my face, a light rain was falling in the most effective manner to guarantee that I got as wet as possible, and I had the single most stupid looking grin in recorded history on my face! Oh, and I was pounding along at a pace that was just above my anaerobic threshold, and my legs were starting to scream. What is it about being a cyclist that makes us all a little crazy?

The reason I had gone out on this little ride was to clear my head and try to process the events of that last day. I mean, let’s get real about this, okay? What man in his right mind could look at my good fortune without wondering just when the giant bolt of lightning was going to strike? So, there I was pounding my body, getting ready to cough up a lung, and I still had a grin a mile wide plastered to my face. If I was hit by a truck right now, the undertaker could just slide me right into the box without having to adjust my face at all.

Saturday evening had been incredible. Having three gorgeous, and might I add willing, women making love to me at the same time was more than just every man’s wild fantasy, it was a religious experience! And don’t think I didn’t thank God for that one in my prayers that night. I had never had too much trouble getting first dates, or even getting lucky after a first date, but most of the women I had gone out with were not cyclists, so they just never ‘got’ it. Plus, I was racing professionally, which meant that I spent a lot of time on the road. And let’s face it; unless you’re Lance, you really don’t have groupies in bike racing. So, women generally said things like “Hmm, that’s nice...” or “My how interesting...”, but they really only said it in an effort to fill the conversational void that telling someone that you rode a bike for a living usually created.

Now my life had taken a turn for the, well, I’m not sure what it had taken a turn toward ... I mean on one hand I was all for whatever was happening. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be, right? On the other hand, I was worried. What was I getting myself into? How would this turn out in the end? Could I really keep five women happy, even accounting for the fact that I had only made love to three of them, and that only once? Was this just some sort of experiment on their part that would quickly end in something uncomfortable? And finally, did I really want to try to make this work? After much more thought and more physical pain I decided that if the ladies were willing to try to make this work than, by God, so was I.

Wednesday evenings we added team skills rides. These would be chances for me to work only with my team on individual and team skills. Each of the ladies had strengths, and each of them had areas they needed to work on in terms of cycling. So, I set out on Wednesday evening rides to teach each of them the skills they would need to ride as a team. The first of these cycling skills is drafting and riding in a pace line.

To take advantage of the draft, or hole in the wind of the rider in front of you, you had to get close enough to “feel the warmth”. Usually, this amounted to getting within ten inches or so of the wheel of the rider in front of you. When you watch the Tour de France, you see professional riders all screaming along, mere inches from each other. You also, just like in NASCAR races, see some spectacular crashes when something bad happens. I had been in my share of both in my career, and I preferred a pace line that worked properly to a pile of twisted bike parts and limbs!

Since none of the ladies on my team had any racing experience, and we were not really racing anyway, I decided that we would start at the beginning and move on from there, so it was with a bit of confusion, and laughter, that I told them we would be working on this skill dismounted and in the grass.

“Okay, to start with, I need everyone to line up one behind the other and about ten inches apart.” I said as they all jostled for a place in line. All of them seemed to be standing entirely too close to each other, and to me, so I said, “You do know what ten inches is, don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Meredith and Anne in unison, as they held up two fingers with about two inches between them. “This is ten inches based on what the last man to tell me what eight inches looks like!”, said Anne. The giggling following this old joke took a while to settle down. I had to admit that I had heard that one before, but never from a woman.

Once they sorted themselves out at an actual ten inches or so, with much giggling and pointing to indicate that they were basing their spacing on the size of my penis, I tried to recapture their attention, so I could teach them the next part of the skill. “Okay, now each rider takes a turn at the front, and your job at the front is to be the eyes and ears of the train that follows.”

“Oh goody,” said Melinda, “I’ve always wanted to pull a train!” Several of my lovelies started to laugh so hard I thought they were going to pass out.

Giving them my best mock glower, I said, “Did you want to learn how to do this or not!” Eventually, and with much more teasing and flirting, we got the basic skill taught. I’m sure we looked quite insane walking along in single file on the grass at the park, with the front ‘rider’ signaling and then pulling off to let the next rider pull through. Of course, watching the rider in front of you pass their hand over their butt to signal they were pulling off got a bit out of hand as well ... I didn’t know there were so many ways to signal you were pulling off that involved grabbing or rubbing your ass!