“By now, you all should have met Jasper,” Abby said, and pointed him out. Jasper gave an amiable wave from his spot toward the rear of the group. “Jasper is our chef and our mechanic. He’ll be preparing breakfasts and lunches. He also drives the sag wagon. He transports our baggage, and cyclists, as needed. He’ll give you a ride if you want one. He’ll fix your bike if it’s broken. You will want to make Jasper your friend.”
“Hi, everyone,” Jasper said. “Welcome.”
“Hi!” chorused the group, except for the same aged gentleman, who asked, loudly, “What?” Jasper was in his early thirties, lean and fit in a Breakaway tee shirt and cargo shorts. With his slender hips, the steely-looking tendons in his forearms, and calves that could have been used as an illustration in an anatomy lesson, he looked much more like most people’s idea of an athlete than Abby did… but, because Jasper was Black, with locs that hung halfway down his back, he, like Abby, was not necessarily what people pictured when they imagined a bike-trip leader. There’d been efforts, in recent years, to make the sport more inclusive, but in general, Abby knew, cycling was still a pastime of the white and the wealthy.
“I know you’re all eager to hit the road,” Abby continued. She gave her sweaty palms a quick wipe on her bike shorts. “I’m going to go over the route and the rules of the road. Today we’re covering the most urban portion of the ride as we make our way out of New York City. We’ll be riding along the Hudson River Greenway out of Manhattan and into the Bronx, over the Broadway Bridge and into Van Cortlandt Park. In case anyone was worrying, we are riding under, not over, the George Washington Bridge.” Abby thought she saw one of the ladies looking extremely relieved at the news. “We’ll stop for lunch in Yonkers, about twenty miles in. Then we’ve got another thirty miles or so until we’re done for the day. Some of the signage leaving the city gets confusing, especially around Manhattan College, so I am going to ask that we all stick together for the first thirteen miles. I’m also going to ask each rider to wear a reflective vest. They help with visibility, which you’ll want, especially on days when we’ll be riding in traffic.”
Jasper was making his way through the group, handing each rider an orange mesh vest with a triangle outlined in reflective tape on the front and back. The enthusiasm with which the riders accepted these items decreased along with their age. The older folks took them with good grace and, sometimes, enthusiastic thanks. Meanwhile, both of the young guys had their backs turned, but Abby was pretty sure she heard one of them mutter What’s the point under his breath, before folding up the pinny and shoving it into one of the pockets in the back of his jersey. My first troublemaker, Abby thought, and narrowed her eyes, thinking, I hope your bicycle seat chafes you somewhere really uncomfortable.
While she waited, Abby’s thoughts wandered to Mark, who hadn’t been happy to see her go. He’d told her it was fine, that she should go for it, that he was happy for her, but Abby had seen his expression—puzzled, disappointed, maybe even a tiny bit angry—after she’d given him the news.
“It’s good money,” Abby said. “And two weeks isn’t forever.”
“I know. I just wish—well.”
“What?” Abby made herself ask.
“I wish I’d had a little more notice. I could have signed up for more shifts. But I understand this just came up,” he said, before Abby could interrupt to remind him of that very thing.
“It’s just two weeks,” Abby said again. “And when I get back, we can figure out the apartment situation.”
Mark nodded, but his expression made him look off-balance, confused, and very young. It made her heart ache. “If we’re going to find a new place, we really should start looking soon.”
“When I get back,” Abby repeated. Then she’d put her hands on his shoulders, pressed herself against him, and started kissing his neck and the underside of his chin. Mark looked surprised. Probably this was because they’d gotten in the habit of having sex only twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday nights. It made Abby sad, when she let herself think about it. When they’d started dating, after meeting again in Philadelphia, they’d tumble into bed—or the shower, or Abby’s couch—at all hours of the day. Sometimes it would be an intense quickie that wouldn’t involve actual undressing, and sometimes it would be slow and languorous. It wasn’t like that anymore… but wasn’t that what happened in every relationship? Things slowed down. The sex got a little less frequent, a little more routine. Wasn’t that just growing up?
“You know, I’ve got to get up at five o’clock tomorrow morning,” Mark said, his breath coming a little faster as Abby slipped her hand along his admirably flat belly and into his boxer-briefs.
“I won’t keep you up all night,” she’d said, before she’d dropped—gracefully, she hoped—to her knees. She’d wanted to please him, because Mark deserved pleasure. She also wanted to keep him from asking any more questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
The next morning, Mark left for work after his run and a quick breakfast of smoothies made with Greek yogurt, protein powder, and frozen spinach. Abby had spent the day doing laundry, packing, taking her bike to Queen Village Bicycles for a preride tune-up.
Mark had been at work when Abby had strapped her panniers onto her bike, rode to Thirtieth Street Station, and taken a train to New York City. Just before the train pulled into Trenton, her phone buzzed with a text. Just because I love you, Mark had written. Attached was a picture of two feet with six-inch toenails on each toe, each one painted bright red.
Abby sent him a blushing face and a heart. Have fun, Mark had texted back. Which meant, she hoped, that she’d been forgiven… or that at least she’d gotten a reprieve.
Back in the park, Abby realized there were a dozen people looking at her expectantly, including Jasper, who’d finished handing out the vests. She swallowed hard.
“Let’s quickly do some introductions. Tell everyone your name and where you’re from.” Abby pointed toward the quartet of senior citizens. The hard-of-hearing fellow—tall, a little stooped, with pale, freckled white skin, skinny arms and knobby knees—gave a wave. He had a fanny pack looped over his shoulder and tucked under his arm, purse-style; hearing aids in both ears, and a turtle-ish aspect, with a round, sunburned face jutting forward from the wattled stalk of his neck.
“Good morning,” he began, in a slightly louder-than-polite volume. “I’m Ted, and this is Sue.” He indicated the gray-haired woman beside him, who waved at the group. “We live in Rye, New York, and we do a trip every summer with our dear friends, Ed and Lou, who live in Ridgefield, Connecticut.” Ed was as short as Ted was tall, with a bald head as tanned and round as an acorn, and a belly that stretched his Lycra jersey in a taut curve. Lou was even shorter than her husband, with a cap of white curls and rosy cheeks.
“So it’s Ted and Sue and Ed and Lou. But if that’s confusing, we also answer to…” He turned around to display the words THE SPOKE’N FOUR emblazoned over a line drawing of four bikes with riders, all in a row. Mild laughter rippled through the group. “Good one,” Jasper called.