The argument started again last night. It’s a cut that won’t heal; it’s a slice on the palm of a miner.
She warns other women not to marry a bike racer; Most always gone, not around much to change the diapers, not a trace of bedroom heroics, and the yard work/paint-patching would never happen were it not for the visits from Mother-in-law. Not much at all can be expected, save a lousy check from time to time, so she says. For me, it’s natural to counter that a cyclist should carefully select a mate who is not plagued by the distractions of a career. Things on the mind besides nurturing, causes and priorities her own, cold dinner and a sense of righteousness – none of these do a champion make. Touché, no?
All that in mind, it should have been NO hot news that as our guests sat in for a seemingly endless evening of political assertions and socioeconomic save-alls, my mind was focused on other things. Should I ditch the radial-laced wheel for the next brevet? When again does tomorrow’s threshold unit begin? Etcetera.
The dissonance of my expression surely told her I could not care less. My spartan dinner servings belied my early evening efforts to feign interest in anything but the riding. So as the guests shuffled out–far past their welcome, and failing miserably to put proper social etiquette before their own self-indulgent conversational coffin nails–I bore down for my punishment.
And it came. Again.
I could’ve held myself gingerly, feeling sorrow, but I didn’t. I knew well that next year things will be easier. My work will pay off, and my teammates reassure me: Nobody fucks with a CAT 4.