Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  “Where are you staying Jenna?” Mom asked.

  “Holiday Inn.”

  “Did you bring your bike?”

  “Of course. It’s pretty here.”

  “Please be careful. You don’t know where you are, you don’t know the roads, you’re by yourself,”

  “I’m being careful,” I said, cutting her off before she went into all the ways I could die riding a bike in North Carolina by myself.

  “Any cute guys there?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “What?” Dad asked.

  “She hasn’t met any guys yet.”

  I used this language barrier as an excuse to get off the phone. “Can I talk to you later when we’re not playing Pete and Repeat?”

  Dad helped my cause by saying, “I missed that last part, say it one more time.”

  “She said you’re annoying her by not hearing her and she’ll talk to us later.”

  “Bye. Love you Mom, tell Dad I love him after I hang up, I can’t listen to him say ‘what’ again.”

  “Huh?”

  I hung up before the translation and started setting up my tent for the third night in a row.

  The entry fee for the Tour of Pennsylvania was two hundred per person or nine hundred per team. A team consisted of nine riders, so racing for a team was a helluva bargain and yet another incentive to turn pro. I paid the entry fee, picked up my race packet and took off on an easy two hour ride to spin out my legs and view the course for the following morning’s prologue, which was three miles long, ending on the track at Penn State.

  I rode my time trial bike to reacquaint myself with the position before tomorrow’s pain. On a road bike, a rider’s body has flexibility; they can sit up or lean down and move their hands about the drops, tops and hoods, the three different spots of a road bike’s handlebars. On a time trial bike, a rider bends in half, putting all of the weight of their upper body on their crotch and taint instead of their taint and ass. While neither position is particularly comfortable, the latter combo is far superior.

  There were at least one hundred male and female cyclists scattered throughout the prologue course checking out the route when I showed up. I tried to avoid wearing a completely dopey grin as I passed by the professional cyclists that I recognized from Velonews and Cyclingnews, but I was very excited and probably not hiding it well. My excitement evaporated when I saw Brenda coming my way in a kit I didn’t recognize. I asked around and found out that Brenda was on a composite team sponsored by a chain bicycle store out of California, Sunshine Cycling, that was looking to be competitive at the Tour de West.

  After the ride, I took my laptop to a Starbucks to see when and how Brenda’s new team formed. As it turned out, three days ago, the first time in two years that I was not sitting at the desk in my office checking cycling news on an hourly basis, Sunshine Cycling posted an article regarding the creation of a women’s team to race the remainder of the National Race Calendar (NRC) schedule, starting with the Tour of Pennsylvania and ending with the Tour de West. The sponsorship no doubt came about because of Sunshine Cycling’s desire to advertise its 158 California bike shops by having nine women wear their logo each day of the Tour de West.

  It was not uncommon for teams of CAT 1 riders to form prior to a big event. The typical women’s stage race permits approximately 120 women to participate. Because there are only about seven professional women’s teams in the United States, there are vacancies prior to most races. Individual CAT 1 racers such as myself often seek out other individual CAT 1 racers to create a composite team for these stage races because even when entering as a team is not required, which is often the case, it is cheaper to enter a stage race as a team rather than individually. These CAT 1 racers hail from all over the United States, so finding a matching kit is tough. Cycling shops, bike companies or local businesses often offer to “sponsor” women by letting them wear a kit with their logo on it in a race. It’s free advertising for the business and the women all match as required.

  I’d thought about joining a composite team for the Tour of Pennsylvania, but opted instead to wear an unmarked white jersey and shorts so that if I did well, any interested professional teams would know I was an available racer. It hadn’t occurred to me to keep an eye out for composite teams for the Tour de West because it was previously reported that there would be no vacancies since the professional teams from Europe, Australia and Canada would flock to the Tour de West and fill the field, along with the continental professional teams in the United States. I continued to read and learned that Sunshine Cycling was granted a wildcard entry because it was such a huge supporter of cycling throughout the west coast. The article also stated that the team was accepting race resumes until fifteen days prior to the Tour de West. Obviously, it would be easier to join a team that was forming rather than a team that had already formed and raced together for over half a season. I decided to draft a race resume immediately.

  I started forming my academic resume when I was in fifth grade and turned down the role of “lead” safety patrol in order to be in charge of the bookstore, where I could get some real transactional experience, such as selling pencils and erasers. From there, my academic resume continued to improve over the next twenty years. By contrast, my cycling race resume was short and unimpressive. While all of my victories were hard fought, they all had taken place in Florida towns with names like Immokalee and Vernon. Adding insult to injury, the races I’d won often had names like the “See You Later Alligator Criterium” or the “Race O’ Rama Cyclorama.” I might as well be walking into a law office with a G.E.D. and three art credits from a community college because my race resume would get me nowhere unless I beefed it up quickly. In the meantime, I had to become friendly with the riders and the coach, called a director sportif, of Sunshine Cycling.

  While I’m not shy, meeting professional cyclists without appearing to be a pathetic jock sniffer would be a difficult task. Cyclists don’t get money and fame like other American athletes, but they tend to have a cult following of cycling enthusiasts who want to meet them at races, become Facebook friends and stay in touch. So, I did not relish being the lawyer on vacation trying to interject myself into the ranks of the professional women’s peloton. My task would be doubly hard because, even if I managed to have an opportunity to engage the director sportif and athletes of Sunshine Cycling in conversation, I would have to do it out of Brenda’s earshot. Team Sunshine Cycling would not be interested if they knew I had bad blood with someone on the team, regardless of how petty.

  Aside from the three-mile prologue, the Tour of Pennsylvania comprised a seventy-six mile hilly road race that would likely end in a sprint; a sixteen-mile time trial, two mountainous road races that were seventy-four and seventy-one miles respectively, and a circuit race in downtown Philadelphia. A circuit race is generally two to three miles; longer than a criterium and shorter than a road race. This circuit race course would go through Center City Philadelphia, starting at the Art Museum steps Sylvester Stallone climbed in Rocky, turning through Rittenhouse Square, passing the Liberty Bell, then ending on the cobblestone streets in front of Independence Hall.

  My best finish during the Tour of Pennsylvania was fifth on the second mountain stage, a road race that ended at a mountain summit. That day, I hung with fourteen other riders up the first mountain and the main pack never caught us. On the last climb, the group split up. I hung onto the front group but got dusted in the sprint finish. I finished three seconds in arrears of my four breakaway companions. Fifth place on a professional road stage was good for anyone, but it was downright impressive for an unattached rider competing in only her second professional stage race. My hopes for finding a professional team soared.

  Unfortunately, the rest of my Tour de Pennsylvania results were between mediocre and shitty. Out of ninety-two women, I placed a fairly anonymous eighteenth in the prologue and twelfth in the time trial. This was something I would have to work on. In the circuit race, I ma
intained the caboose position throughout. What was worse, I was often a detached caboose, shotgunning off the back of the field. My modus operandi for these races was to slow down into each turn, slipping out of the draft of the pack; then knock myself out on each straightaway to catch up just in time to slow down going into the next corner. Another area that needed improvement. I did well during the hilly road race, riding towards the front of the pack and escaping in a few breakaways, but the peloton eventually reeled in the breakaways and the race came down to a sprint finish. In character, I choked and racked up another last place finish.

  The only real shock was that I did horribly on the first mountain stage. As a cruel joke, the Tour of Pennsylvania started its first mountain stage at the top of the mountain rather than the bottom. Consequently, ninety-two female cyclists, who were fresh aside from their effort on the previous day’s three-mile prologue, raced each other to the bottom of the mountain. I started out conservatively then slowed down after someone ate it into the metal railing lining the road. As with every crash I had witnessed, I smelled burnt rubber, heard metal cracking, then saw the actual crash; the exact opposite order of how one would imagine the senses perceive a crash. After witnessing the crash, I panicked and slowed to a snail’s pace for the remainder of the descent. I was over a minute behind the peloton at the bottom of the mountain and the gap only grew from there. The peloton worked together against the wind while I sat in the wind all by my lonesome. I tried to think of the Rocky theme song to pump me up, but Against the Wind was stuck in my head instead. I passed a handful of racers along the course, but all of them wound up being time cut because they did not finish within four percent of the winner’s time. If a rider is time cut, they cannot start the next day’s stage. Of the finishers, I was last. Of my three last place finishes, this was the most disappointing because I had visions of winning that mountain stage.

  Fortunately, a cyclist only has to list her good results on a race resume. A fifth place on Stage 4 of the Tour de Pennsylvania looked a lot more impressive when not surrounded by numbers in the high double digits. I beat all of team Sunshine Cycling on Stage 4, so it was possible that I was better at riding up mountains than anyone on their short list for the Tour de West roster. Brenda, master of sitting comfortably in a pack, then sprinting through a small dangerous hole of riders, placed seventh on the circuit race and ninth on the hilly road race that came down to a sprint. She did poorly on the prologue, time trial and mountain stages, but that was to be expected since she’s a pure sprinter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the first few weeks away, I became quite adept at lying to my parents. While my situation necessitated lying, I really ran with it. I justified this because I was on vacation and the key to a good vacation was pleasure. I would hate for my traveling, racing, drinking and napping to be interrupted by a nagging parental concern about my professional and social life. Since I had to lie anyway, I decided to tell my parents everything they wanted to hear, then sit back and bask in their approval. So now they were very happy with my commitment to work, handsome new boyfriend Adam and all around cheery disposition, though the cheery disposition is actually genuine now that I’m living the dream.

  The last time my mom called, I wound up telling her that the four secretaries at my new office were named Geri, Lauren, Tara and Stacy, which are the names of my mom and her three sisters. A bizarre lie, I know, but Mom is very entertained by coincidences. When her gas tank fills and lands on the dollar, like thirty-eight dollars exactly, she is sure to share the news. Knowing this, and wanting to give her some sort of story on our daily phone conversations, the needless lie came out. I told her that my boyfriend, Adam, and I spent a few hours each week volunteering with underprivileged children. She seemed to appreciate that her commitment to charity had finally rubbed off. At first, I felt guilty each time I hung up after lying. However, she seemed so pleased that I actually felt like a good person each time I lied to her.

  Yesterday, Mom called and asked if I got her package. She used to send me packages when I was in college or went to camp, so I wasn’t surprised that a package was en route. “No, I haven’t gotten anything yet,” I said. “Where did you send it?”

  “To the Holiday Inn near your Charlotte office.”

  “Hmm. I haven’t received anything. What is it?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Is it clothes?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “No, you have to wait,” she said.

  This was going to kill me. I had to know what was in that package. I’m still disturbed that I don’t know what was in the package in the movie Castaway with Tom Hanks and that had nothing to do with me. “Come on Mom.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “How’s Sonny?” I asked.

  “He’s horrible.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing, it’s what’s happened to me, Dad and the neighborhood. He howls all day, takes up our entire bed at night, digs through our garbage, tracks mud in the house and buries his Milk-Bones in my house plants.”

  “Ah, that’s so cute. I really miss him.”

  “It’s not cute, he’s nuts,” Mom said.

  “You know you love him.”

  “We do, when he’s at your house. Dad and I are thinking about visiting you up there, what do you think?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, wincing at the thought of them showing up at the Charlotte office of Johnson Smith. “I’m really busy with work and volunteering and stuff. I’ll hardly see you. Plus, I’m afraid you won’t be able to resist decorating my hotel room and that’s really not necessary.”

  “We’ll see. If you’re busy, Dad and I will just visit you briefly. Then we’ll hike in the Smoky Mountains.”

  “We can talk about it later, I have to go. Love you.” I said this quickly, and hung up. This could get dicey. I called the Holiday Inn to have them forward my package to the race hotel of the Tour of Vermont, my next stage race.

  Before the Vermont Stage Race, I had several professional one-day races on Saturdays and Sundays in upstate New York, Massachusetts and New Hampshire. These races were populated by professional women and local CAT 1 racers. The format for each was a road race on Saturday, then a criterium on Sunday. Each race had its own winner; times were not accumulated over the weekend to arrive at an overall winner.

  I placed in the top five for the road races in New York, Massachusetts and New Hampshire, but came in last in all three criteriums. Still, my race resume was beginning to shape up. But I had yet to make headway with any of the professional teams, including Sunshine Cycling.

  The New Hampshire criterium was the final race before the Tour of Vermont. During the criterium, where I finished last, there was some drama when Brenda cursed at a local girl who cut her off. The girl went to a race official in tears after the race and complained about the foul language. The official disqualified Brenda, who then began her own hysterics, yelling up a storm.

  I was enjoying the scene, but decided to seize the opportunity to make an ally on Sunshine Cycling.

  “Hey, Brenda,” I said, “what happened?”

  “None of your business,” she snarled.

  Her tongue and teeth were stained with red Gatorade, and her hair had been flattened by her helmet. I suppressed a laugh and decided to prey on her legendary stinginess. “I heard them disqualify you. Want some help?” I asked.

  “What could you do?” she asked me as bitchily as possible.

  “Defend you. I specialize in cycling litigation.”

  “I thought you practiced segregation,” she said.

  “I handle desegregation, subrogation and cycling litigation.”

  “Why would you help me?” she asked.

  “Because you’re always so sweet to me,” I said.

  She looked at me skeptically, so I added, “There’s only a fifteen- minute protest period after the race and you’re running out of time. You ca
me in third so you’re about to be relegated and lose three hundred and fifty bucks. On top of that, once the decision is final, USA Cycling can fine you for cursing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” I said.

  “Work your lawyer magic,” she said.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned being a lawyer, it’s that people think you know everything. I’ve been asked to help sell a house, handle a child custody case, start up a business, apply for a patent, defend a vehicular manslaughter case, and my personal favorite, sue a grocery store for a loaf of bread with mulch in it. While all of these are lawyerly tasks, I hadn’t a clue how to do any of them. To avoid revealing this secret, I generally Googled the area of law, read quickly, then made something up. My advice sometimes sounded crazy, but as long as I gave it with confidence, I was rarely questioned.

  I decided to put my confidence routine to the test with the USA Cycling official. I handed him my business card and told him that the disqualification was questionable pursuant to the USA Cycling handbook. I cited to provision 8(a) of chapter 7 to make it sound more official.

  “The decision is already made,” he said.

  “I’ll file suit on Brenda’s behalf, which you’ll have to defend for at least nuisance value. That will run you about ten grand. You’ll probably lose though. I’ve already spoken to several girls who said that the other girl cursed Brenda out and not the reverse. Brenda is trying to qualify for Sunshine Cycling to race the Tour de West. If you strip this result without sufficient proof, you’ve ruined her career and damages will be substantial.” I smiled as I said this, thinking of the ridiculousness of a large trial, with witnesses, over the loss of $350 in a New Hampshire criterium.

  The official disappeared for a minute then came back and reinstated Brenda’s third place finish.

  “So,” Brenda said, “what do you want?”

  “Thirty-three and one-third percent will make us square.”

  “Yeah, right. That took you two minutes.”