Unseemly or not, Al’s girlfriend apparently staked out her territory in public with fully involved kisses, hugs, and bum squeezes. There was little doubt she had wedding bells in mind and the sooner the better. As one of Ellen’s friends maddeningly reported, she wore the look of someone whose biological clock was not only ticking, but whose snooze alarm had already gone off.
Ellen had been wryly amused that no one supposed that she, too, might have met someone. Not that she had. But it was interesting that everyone simply assumed there wasn’t anyone in her new life. They’d probably have been happier if she just joined a nunnery somewhere, if such things even existed anymore. Well, she didn’t join a nunnery, but there were times since the divorce when she longed to be anywhere but where she was. Her lethargy frightened her. The dismal days when it was too much trouble to get dressed, too much trouble to prepare a meal, too much trouble to do anything were never-ending nightmares. She lived in her dressing gown, eating whatever was in the cupboard until it ran out and sheer hunger forced her to get dressed and go to the store.
The television played nonstop as Ellen slumped in her chair, letting whatever was on the screen wash over her and fill her days. One of those shows pointed the way to recovery by identifying her problem: clinical depression. It alarmed her enough that she finally saw a doctor. Not her own family doctor — she was too ashamed of what she had become to face him — but an anonymous doctor who had an office in the mall.
She worked through the desperate journey gradually, taking two steps forward and one step back. She couldn’t be bothered with makeup. There seemed little point to it now that wrinkles and crow’s feet had had a field day on her face. She tried to ignore her ballooning shape. Al’s girlfriend might parade around in tight pants and skimpy tops, but Ellen camouflaged herself in sweatpants and tops, shapeless and bland, in dark blues and blacks, telling herself that loose clothing hid her extra pounds. She knew she was lying to herself, but she couldn’t face any more problems right then. One of these days, she promised herself, she’d get busy and lose the weight.
Gradually, she beat back the depression, and that in itself was worth celebrating.
Ellen now spends her afternoons in the Coquitlam Centre Mall, rambling through the stores. The food courts tempt her eye with richly decorated pastry, tantalize her nose with hot whiffs of french fries, and bombard her ears with the sizzle of teriyaki chicken hitting the grill, all accompanied by the whir of the milkshake machines. But mostly she enjoys watching the people. It’s almost like television, but you can make up their stories yourself.
Beside the food court, a small display area features a changing parade of entertainment. Today, there is a fitness promotion. Young men and women in shiny neon spandex bounce on trampolines and turn flips in midair. Women with dandelion heads of blond hair ascend never-ending stairs. Clusters of spectators surround the demonstrations, watching a slender girl in shiny tights whirl the pedals of a stationary bike with a computer screen that shows rolling hills, while a well-muscled young man in a deeply cut tank top stands near her, lifting free weights. The erotic gyrations of aerobic dancers draw another crowd of spectators.
Beyond the main display area, just out of range of the ear-numbing music and squeals of the aerobics instructors, a small booth is tucked away. It looks lonesome. Out of curiosity, Ellen wanders over and finds the feature here is a row of bikes. In the background, a video shows groups of people pedalling off into the sunset along the Oregon coast, along the beaches of Santa Barbara, through the canyons of Colorado, and across Utah’s slick rock trails.
Caught up despite herself, Ellen stops to watch the video.
Hah, she snorts mentally. Why don’t they show it like it is? With people riding along rainy city streets, soaked with spray from passing cars?
Still, she has to give them credit for using ordinary people. They’re reasonably fit, but not the overdone look of weightlifters or bodybuilders, just run-of-the-mill fit. She can imagine the people in the video stopping along the way at a Baskin Robbins for ice cream. They have the contented look of people who sleep in on Saturday mornings.
Watching the bikes, she remembers the feel of pedals under her feet and the wind blowing through her hair. She remembers the day she got her first bike.
“Happy birthday, Ellen.” Mom was smiling as she slid a waffle onto Ellen’s plate.
“Wow! We have a teenager in the family,” her dad quipped.
Her brother, Lloyd, said nothing, but couldn’t suppress a conspiratorial grin.
At last, breakfast ended and her father led her down into the basement, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so she was looking through the steps to the empty space under the stairs. Only that day, it wasn’t empty.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
A bike was leaning against the wall. The frame was shiny enamel. Fine lines embellished the silver fenders. A red reflector disc hung from the back fender and a shiny chrome bell perched on the right handlebar, ready for her thumb to bring it to life.
“But—”
Her father interrupted.
“I know. It’s a boy’s bike. You can share it with your brother.”
Ellen looked again at the bike. It didn’t seem quite so shiny, and the bell wasn’t quite so appealing. He handed her a package, still in its store wrapper. Carefully she untied it. The paper fell away to reveal a light wire basket, gleaming silver, brand new, and just the right size to fit on the bike.
“Mine?” she asked.
He nodded. “You can put your schoolbooks in it.”
Ellen didn’t. It was usually too wet, or too foggy, or too something to ride the bike to school. Summer holidays were the best time. In the evening, parents drifted out to sit on their front porches, cooling off from the overheated kitchens where they’d just finished their dinners. Little kids played in front yards under their watchful eye. Older kids rode their bikes, wheeling them around in endless circles, weaving patterns along the road. Sometimes they pedalled a few blocks to a neighbourhood park, but mostly they stood, leaning on their bikes, talking away the endless summer evenings.
Ellen used the bike during that first summer. Then it became her brother’s. She hadn’t ridden a bike since, but on this day she watches the video twice, stands for almost half an hour as it plays through, then steps forward for a closer look. She isn’t sure why she finds them so attractive. She certainly doesn’t want a bike, doesn’t need a bike, and has no intention of getting a bike. She’s just curious.
“Can I help you?” The young man smiles — a friendly smile acknowledging her curiosity.
“No, no. I was just looking. They’ve certainly changed since I used to ride one.”
“I’ll bet you had coaster brakes.”
Ellen nods in agreement. “Coaster brakes and a bell on the handlebars that you rang with your thumb.”
“Look what they’ve got now,” he says. His enthusiasm is infectious.
He urges her closer to one of the bikes. “Here. Touch this.”
Obediently she presses her thumb to the black box fixed to the handlebar and literally jumps in shock at the sound that blasts from it.
“Great, isn’t it?” he enthuses. “That’s the loudest electronic bike horn on the market. It’s a real safety feature.”
His hands rove lovingly along the handlebar — a straight line of chrome, not the butterfly shaped bars she remembers.
“Look at this. It’s a BLT rechargeable light — water-resistant, impact-resistant, and you can focus the beam down to a narrow pencil or open it into a flood.
“And here’s the most comfortable seat you’ve ever tried. It’s called an Easyseat. They’ve taken the nose off the traditional seat and separated the saddle so there’s no irritation.” His hands fondly pat two little pads that sit suspended over the centre post of the bike.
“I think I’d like something more traditional,” she murmurs.
He nods
in agreement. “I know what you mean. There are some really comfortable gel seats out now. Here’s one you might like.”
Ellen isn’t sure how it happens, but she’s suddenly perched on the seat of a braced bike, churning the pedals in brisk circles.
“See! It’s just like they say.” He beams. “Once you’ve ridden a bike, you never forget how.”
He watches for a minute.
“Have you ever ridden a geared bike?”
She’s short of breath by this point and doesn’t want to waste oxygen on words. She shakes her head and concentrates on the task at hand, pushing the pedals around and around. Like ants around a dropped french fry, people emerge from nowhere to cluster around the display. Ellen feels their eyes appraising her performance. A tide of red washes across her face and creeps down her neck. A trickle of sweat rolls from vertebrae to vertebrae, gathering in a pool at the base of her spine. What is she doing, sitting here in the mall, making such a spectacle of herself? What if someone she knows walks by? What if Al walks by … with his girlfriend?
Ellen wants to get off the bike but she doesn’t know how. The young man is talking to others now. He’s trying to make a living. Mercifully, he notices her distress.
“Here. You take a break and let me explain the gear levers,” he says, handing her a folded paper cup of ice cold water. She accepts it gratefully, gulping it down. The back of her throat rebels at the sudden cold, sending shivers through her fillings and sharp pains into her ears.
He turns to the young men clustered around the bikes, explaining milk levers, derailleurs, front- and rear-geared wheels, and Shimano gear changers. Ellen doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He continues, with a loving description of Airstryke bars, which she can lean on for comfort during long uphill climbs or extended rides.
Long uphill climbs? She’s not planning to do uphill climbs of any length —or any other kind of rides.
He plunges on, describing the wind tunnel advantage of cycling with the arms tucked in, like ski jumpers. “Boon Lennon discovered the aerodynamics of that one,” he adds proudly.
John Lennon she’s heard of. His music was part of her life. But Boon Lennon isn’t even vaguely familiar.
As someone in the crowd asks another question, Ellen resumes pedalling, moving her feet in slow circles.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, that someone this age can stay young and still have fun biking,” the young man is saying.
This age? Ellen doesn’t consider herself to be “this age” yet. She’s not exactly young, but being a tad past one’s youth doesn’t equate with “this age” except in the unfocused eyes of the very young. His words surround her.
“There’s a seniors’ bike club that goes from one side of the country to the other. They’re even planning to go around Australia. We service their bikes for them. Some of them are in their seventies.… One is even in his eighties.” He trots out this last fact with all the aplomb of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
Ellen wonders idly if he thinks she’s a senior. If she had enough energy she’d tell him that she’s barely into middle age and senior is a long way down the pike.
Snatches of conversation drift by.
“Yeah — imagine having the time to make trips like that. Makes you wish you were ready to retire, doesn’t it?”
He bends over another bike, answering technical questions from an athletic fellow who looks to be in his mid-twenties. Their hands fly as they share the esoteric language of gear ratios, aerodynamics, cadences, and super lightweight alloys.
At that moment, Ellen makes a decision. She steps off the bike and back into his field of vision.
“I’ll take it,” she says.
He looks at her blankly.
“The bike. I want it,” she repeats.
“That’s wonderful,” he says. “I know you’ll enjoy it. We can deliver it next week.”
“No. I want it today. And I want it with a real seat — not that little pad thing. I want a seat I can really sit on.”
“But …”
“And take off that air horn.”
The young man considers for a moment.
“Right. It’s yours. I’ll write up a bill of sale.”
He turns to his associate and points to the bike. “Can you look after this for me? Take the horn off and change this seat for a standard gel?”
At that moment she realizes what she’s done. She hasn’t even asked how much it costs. A flush of embarrassment pulses through her, prickling its way up her neck and staining her cheeks. Quickly, before she can change her mind, she opens her purse and peeks in her wallet. Yes, the credit card is there.
He writes things on the bill while a scanner conveys information from her card to a computer in Chicago or some other distant place, which confirms that she has enough money somewhere to pay for the bike. This is her first purchase on her own card. As much as anything, she needs to prove to herself that she’s entitled to use it. When she and Al separated, she didn’t realize that after all the years of paying bills, all the years of looking after the household budget, their good credit rating was all in his name. She’d assumed it was a joint thing. She had a card with her name on it, but it turned out that was just a courtesy. It wasn’t even that. It was pure sham. The account was Al’s. Extra cards could be issued at his request, in any name at all. Later she learned that some people had them in the name of their family pet. Maybe that’s what she was, a family pet.
Not until Al, on the advice of his lawyer, cancelled all the credit cards, did Ellen discover that everything she had was tied to him. Everything they’d achieved together turns up on the credit side of his ledger, but is totally missing from hers. It was a hard lesson.
She had to start from square one. To the business community, she was simply another woman with, as far as credit grantors were concerned, not much going for her.
Her heart pounds a ragged rhythm and anger builds at the memory. She’s been afraid to use the new credit card. Someone might change their mind when they realize it’s just Ellen and take it back.
At that moment the young man looks up, smiles, and announces the total.
“I’m giving you a demonstrator discount.”
She smiles back and grabs the edge of the counter tightly.
He hands her something the computer has printed out.
She looks at it and nods.
He waits another moment before gesturing at the slip.
“You have to sign it.”
Flustered, she looks down, grabs the pen, and signs her name. Then she thinks of something else.
“I’ll need someone to help me get it in the car.”
He’s all smiles again.
“My partner will be right with you.”
The partner, who has by now finished taking off the air horn and changing the seat, turns out to be as taciturn as his friend is garrulous, but at that moment Ellen is content to walk silently beside him. He makes his first comment in the parking lot, standing beside her car.
“No rack?”
“No rack,” she affirms.
He looks at the car again.
“Let’s try the trunk.”
Quickly he opens the hatch of her Hyundai. He releases the rear seat back and folds it forward, opening the trunk to its fullest, then effortlessly picks up the bike and swings it into position. Try as he will there is no way to fit the machine into the back of her car.
“I’ll have to take the front wheel off.”
She looks puzzled.
“There’s a quick-release lever on the wheel — see this thing?” His thumb presses a small chrome blade. “Push it like this to release the wheel. When you get home, fit the axle back into the fork and press the lever the other way.”
He looks at her thoughtfully. She can feel him weighing her. Some sort of reading comes up on his mental scale and she lands on the good side of the ledger.
“Here. You try it.”
He stands up, giving her access t
o the wheel.
It’s on the tip of her tongue to say no, she can figure it out for herself, but she probably can’t. She grasps the chrome lever firmly, takes a deep breath, and flips it. The wheel lifts out easily.
“Put it back,” he instructs.
It’s a little trickier to manoeuvre past the brake pads and fit the axle into its slot, but with a little juggling, she reassembles it and flicks the chrome lever closed.
He grunts approval as she steps away. “Just remember to double check it before you use the bike. Good idea to do it every time, whether you’ve loosened it or not.”
He stoops, quickly unlocks the wheel, and slips the two parts of the bike into the hatch of her car.
“There you go, lady.”
He pauses, then smiles. He has a nice smile.
“First thing I’d do if I was you is get a good helmet. Then I’d call a bike club and find someone to ride with. It’s more fun that way. Safer, too.
“And make sure you check that wheel lock before you start to ride.”
Quickly, he turns and walks away.
“Thank you,” she calls. “Thank you very much.”
He turns, smiles, and waves. “Good luck.”
Ellen wonders if she should have tipped him. Everyone else seems to get tipped, and she’s never sure if she’s doing the right thing or not. But he’s walked away so quickly that he probably didn’t expect a tip. She hopes he didn’t. People who want a tip usually waft around giving you lots of opportunity to slip them something.
He certainly hadn’t done that, so maybe it was okay.
It has to be, she tells herself. I can’t do anything about it now.
She thinks instead about her new bike, warming to the notion of riding it.
She prefers not to think about how he knew there was no one at home to help her with it.
— 3 —
GETTING THE BIKE INTO the apartment is worse than corralling a cat. What the young man swept so easily into the trunk transforms itself into an awkward pile of metal that refuses to co-operate in any way. Ellen’s hands grip cold pieces of pipe, seeking purchase on the smooth enamel finish as she tugs it this way and that. Angrily, she lurches against the frame, twisting for leverage, and feels the sickening pull of a fingernail breaking below the quick. She pauses to blow a strand of hair from her forehead, where it dangles limply into her eyes, but finally manages to grunt the bike pieces from the trunk. Fitting them together costs her a scraped knuckle and another broken nail. Still, she feels a small swell of pride as she wheels the bike smoothly to the front door of her building.
On the Rim Page 3