Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  “Don’t you think someone will ask about the baby?” Mom asked.

  “Adoption,” I said.

  “Jenna, this isn’t funny.” Mom said.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. That’s seriously my plan.”

  “What about medical records?” Dad asked, ever practical.

  “No one asked for any, I looked pregnant. But, there’s a doctor I ride with who will sign anything for me if I have a problem.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. White.”

  “The proctologist?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah, I know, wrong hole, but you’d be surprised how close those holes actually are.”

  “Do not ask Dr. White for anything,” my dad said, “you’ll get his license revoked as well.”

  “No one’s license is getting revoked,” I assured him.

  “That’ll be the least of your problems if you get caught. This is fraud, Jenna, you could go to jail.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, though he did have a point.

  “You don’t seem the least bit scared,” Dad continued. “You know you can’t train on that bike in jail, maybe that will scare you.”

  That fear had definitely crossed my mind, but I didn’t let on and said, “Chill out. No one is going to suspect I lied about being pregnant.” I said this with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  “Jenna,” Mom chimed in, “if you hate your job so much why don’t you just do something different?”

  “I don’t hate it. Well actually I do, but that’s not the point. The point is I want to be a professional bike racer. I’m not going to like any other job, so I may as well keep the one I’m at.”

  “If this was John I’d understand. Being a funeral director must be miserable. But you have a good job, working from eight to five in air conditioning and making good money. Why are you jeopardizing that?” Mom asked.

  “Because sitting in an office nine hours a day sucks.”

  “What do you want to do?” Dad asked.

  Wow, I was pretty sure I just covered that. “What I’m doing now.” I said. “Racing my bike. I also like taking naps and drinking beer, but not too much right now because of training.”

  “Great, how much money are you making doing that?” Dad asked.

  “So far I’m breaking even on the cycling and napping and losing a bit on the beer. It’s not a very marketable trifecta.”

  “This isn’t a joke. What does breaking even mean?”

  “I’m recouping the money I spend on gas, hotels and entry fees by winning some money in races.”

  “So you’re saying that you’re at a zero dollar income,” Dad said. His voice was more “angry dad” than “accountant dad” as he broke down my finances.

  “No, I’m at two-thirds salary since I’m on maternity leave.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. I mean you’re at a zero dollar income from cycling. That’s a great career move.”

  Mom interrupted. “Jenna, if you want to get paid to do nothing why don’t you just marry rich?”

  “First, I’m not ‘doing nothing.’ I’m racing in professional cycling races. Second, I’m not opposed to marrying rich if I meet the right guy, but I’ve been in a bit of a dating rut for my entire life. So, until I find Mr. Right, I’d like to make it on my own.”

  Dad cut in again. “You’re in a dating rut because all you do is ride that stupid bike. And, by the way, taking a fraudulent maternity leave isn’t ‘making it’ on your own.”

  “Not in the traditional sense,” I said, “but you have to admit it shows ambition and ingenuity.”

  Dad disagreed. “It exhibits stupidity, Jenna, that’s what it exhibits. What if the race is televised and someone sees you?”

  “Now that’s stupidity,” I ventured. “This is cycling. Even on the rare occasion it is televised, no one watches. Relax. I’m having fun and holding my own. I may have secured a contract today.”

  “Great, what’s that worth?” Dad asked, not relenting in the least.

  “So far I got a free kit, valued at one hundred dollars.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A uniform.”

  Mom tried to defuse the situation. “Jenna, come home and we’ll talk about this some more.”

  I replied, “I’m not coming back to Tampa until my maternity leave is over and I’ve raced the Tour de West.”

  “Yes, you are,” insisted Dad.

  Mom, who was clearly starting to take pity on me, cut in. “Michael, maybe this is good for her. I mean, in spite of everything, she’s been volunteering and has a steady boyfriend. That’s progress.”

  “Not exactly,” I offered.

  “You lied about volunteering?”

  “And a few other minor details,” I said.

  “Is Adam real?”

  “Nope, but I’m sure I’ll meet a real Adam someday,” I said, not necessarily believing or caring if I would.

  “I suppose the four secretaries with the same names as my sisters and me was a lie too.”

  “Sorry,” I said feeling genuinely bad that I’d betrayed my mother.

  “Jenna, Dad’s right. You’re coming home and we’ll talk about this then.”

  “I’m not coming home,” I said holding my ground.

  “Yes, you are,” Mom demanded though she must have realized she had no real power to compel my cooperation.

  “I’ve avoided pointing this out until now, but I’m twenty-eight. You can’t make me do anything.”

  “Maybe not legally,” Dad said, “but your roommate is at our house and if you’re not back in Tampa in four days, we’re taking him to a nice family on a farm far away.”

  “You’re going to kill my dog?” I said incredulously.

  “I don’t know Jenna. We’re going to do something to stop you. This is crazy.” Dad was sounding increasingly desperate.

  “Why can’t you just ride your bike around the neighborhood like normal people?” Mom chimed in, appealing in vain to my sense of normalcy.

  “I don’t know. I’m obsessed with being ranked and beating people. Must be some sort of pattern of achievement and reward I became accustomed to as a child.”

  “Don’t blame this on us,” Mom said, anger starting to replace the frustration in her voice.

  “Blame?” I said. “I’m crediting you.”

  “Jenna,” Dad said, “we love you the way you are and want you to be happy but—”

  “Great,” I interrupted, “so you’ll keep watching Sonny while I race?”

  “Fuck no,” said Dad, unable to be persuaded by his little girl for once. “You’re throwing away your career and risking your life. If we watch Sonny while you do that, we’d be helping you destroy yourself. So, Sonny has to go. It’s the only way we can talk sense into you.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “We won’t kill him, but we won’t keep him. We’ll find a good home. If you want to race, it’s going to cost you your dog. Sorry, but it’s the only leverage we have. If we could ground you or put you in timeout we would.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said without conviction.

  * * *

  What I meant by “I’ll think about it,” was that I’d think of a way to race my bike and keep my dog. I wasn’t that worried, because I knew there was no way that someone would actually take Sonny home and keep him for more than twenty-four hours. Regardless, I needed a plan. I called Julie.

  “Hey, Jenna, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Aren’t you with your parents in North Carolina?” Julie asked.

  “Not exactly.” I gave her the short version of the events that led to my call. “Now, they’re holding Sonny hostage until I agree to stop racing.”

  “Back the truck up, what happened?” Julie asked. I was relieved that she sounded entertained rather than angry.

  I realized the story was so bizarre it couldn’t be absorbed in one quick telling. I told her again. “Well,” she said, “you’re
in luck, because John and I are watching Sonny while your parents are in North Carolina. Don’t worry, we’ll hang onto him as long as you need.”

  I thanked her profusely and filled her in on my trip thus far. When I got off the phone, I called Danny and told him that I broke the news to my parents.

  “Were they pissed?” Danny asked.

  “Does the pope shit in the woods?” I responded. “They’re holding my dog hostage and threatening to kill him.” I filled Danny in on the rest of the story.

  “Once they lose the Sonny leverage, they’re going to write you out of their will,” he said. “It’s all they have left.”

  “They’re pretty healthy. If they write me out, I’ll have a good twenty or thirty years to get back in their good graces. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” Danny said. “Business is slow and I have no Jenna-Related Activities to keep me busy.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of some JRAs for you. If the dog wasn’t with John and Julie I was going to have you break into my parents’ house for him.”

  “From pumping your bike tires to breaking and entering? That’s quite a promotion.”

  “What can I say, you’re that good,” I said.

  As soon as I got off the phone with Danny, my phone rang again. The caller ID told me it was Quinton. How could a day start so well and end so badly? I let his call go to voice mail, then checked the messages. “Hey, beautiful. I’m out of jail. Just seeing what you’re up to tonight. Give me a call.”

  I deleted Prince Charming’s message and called his mom, Sarah.

  She answered the phone, obviously drunk. “Hi, Jenna, sexy mama. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “Tony’s out of jail. We’re partying!”

  “Yeah, about that,” I said, “I’m going to need a bit more time in the loony bin to fully regain my mental health. Can you cover for me in the meantime? I don’t want Quinton to think I’m crazy, or not interested in him.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll cover for you babe,” Sarah said.

  This conversation allowed me to successfully table the Quinton issue, but it seemed unavoidable that it was going to bite me in the ass eventually. I would have to choose between marrying Quinton or having Sarah reveal my secret. I decided to worry about that later, after the Tour de West. Once I got back to Tampa I would have to focus all of my energies on making Quinton as uninterested in me as I was in him.

  * * *

  Lance Armstrong once compared cycling to a combination of NASCAR, chess and marathon running. Cycling is indeed like NASCAR but with two wheels and no motor. Both involve strategy, drafting, crashes, flat tires, teammates making sacrifices for the good of their captain and a lot of petrol. While riding a bike as transportation is good for the environment, competitive cycling is a huge waste of natural resources. Cyclists fly and drive to races all over the country every weekend. For a local cycling event, race officials, cops and a wheel truck follow races throughout the day. The vehicles accompanying the race increase along with the level of racing, so that all professional road races are led by a caravan of cars that sponsor the event. At the Tour de France, the caravan is over a mile long. In addition, the race officials’ car and team cars form a two mile line after the cyclists pass, brought up by the “broom wagon,” the last car to pass, following the last rider. Plus, each professional team has a gas-guzzling RV that travels with the riders for team meetings before and after the race. Finally, several helicopters hover over the hundred mile race course to provide aerial views of the race unfolding. The idea that cycling is a “green” sport is patently ridiculous.

  Equally ridiculous is comparing cycling to chess and marathons. While there is a mental element to cycling, as in chess, it’s not rocket science. Further, to the extent cycling is like chess, it’s like playing chess with a phone-a-friend to Bobby Fischer. Cyclists wear earpieces and microphones, like the Secret Service, to talk to their teammates and director sportif. When an opportunity for thinking arises, a cyclist can punt their concern to their team. As a result, a stupid or uneducated person will fare much better in cycling than in chess. Recently, there’s been a movement to ban race radios to make the races more exciting. Some pro tour races have even already started the ban. The riders and director sportifs are strongly resisting this, even boycotting races, arguing first, that it’s dangerous because race radios alert racers to perils in the road thereby preventing crashes. Second, it’s unfair, as a cyclist who punctures needs a radio to request a speedy wheel change. And third, it’s unnecessary, as race radios do not make the sport dull. Surprisingly, no one is arguing the obvious: that cycling is a team sport and as such, the racers deserve a coach. I’m sure basketball would be more exciting if a coach couldn’t call a time-out when their players are choking; football more entertaining if the coach couldn’t call a play; baseball if the runner had to figure out for himself whether it was safe to run to home plate. Why even have a coach if he or she is not allowed to coach on game day?

  As for a marathon: you can suck and still race a marathon. It may take you seven hours, but you can finish. If you suck in a cycling race, you’re off the back of the pack in five seconds and a race official pulls you from the course. There are no medals for participation or pats on the back for trying, only humiliation. While both marathons and cycling involve speed and endurance, a marathon lasts from two hours to seven hours, depending on your speed. A cycling road race is almost always over one hundred miles for men and seventy miles for women and takes between three and five hours. A stage race lasts one to three weeks of this schedule. With all due respect to marathoning, cycling is in a league of its own, though I think Kenyans could cross over quite smoothly.

  The Tour of Colorado was my first race with teammates and a team strategy. Granted, the team was newly formed and didn’t have the camaraderie of a full season together, but they were still pretty close. Most of the women knew one another before the formation of Sunshine Cycling, some even raced together on composite teams occasionally throughout the years. All of the women were excited to be a part of the inaugural Tour de West. Their attitude toward me was very welcoming, but I could tell that my presence was slightly unnerving to some. I think I served as a reminder that their spot on the roster could be replaced at any moment.

  Because our team was considerably weaker than the established professional teams, our tactics were somewhat lax. The plan was for everybody to do her best, but for nobody to waste energy doing the work of the big teams such as setting the tempo, chasing breakaways, or making any other sacrifices involving time in the wind other than to get water bottles from the team car.

  Florida is humid and at sea level. Colorado is dry and at altitude. The Tour of Colorado was my first time at altitude since first grade. I didn’t recall any ill effects from altitude as a six-year-old, but this time I was out of luck. In addition to a headache and nausea, I felt like I was breathing through a straw for the first three days of the race. My health improved for days four, five and six, but I was still unable to do anything impressive. My position on the team was definitely in jeopardy with the Tour de West a week away.

  After the last stage of the Tour of Colorado, I met with Erica. As I suspected, the news wasn’t good. Apparently, while I showed a lot of promise for such a new rider, Sunshine Cycling preferred to go with someone more experienced and consistent for the big race.

  “Who are you taking?” I asked.

  “Janice Barnes.”

  I knew of Janice, though I had never met her. She rode with Sunshine Cycling in Pennsylvania and Vermont, but rode as an individual in Colorado. I finished ahead of her in every stage of the Tour of Vermont and beat her handily in the Tour of Pennsylvania on all of the stages except the three where I placed dead last. Her results were decent, but not exceptional. Not that I’d been exceptional, but she was no doubt getting the nod because she’d been around for ten years and was much more experienced and consistent t
han I. I had nothing against Janice, but the bitch was in my way and I’d come too far and risked too much not to go down swinging. “Come on,” I said, “I’m better than Janice. I just had some altitude sickness. By next week, my time in the altitude will have made me stronger.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenna. I told Janice after the Tour of Vermont that I’d take her unless you did something special in Colorado. I can’t justify taking someone with two months of professional experience over someone with ten years, even if you do have more potential.”

  “I come with a free massage therapist,” I said, improvising.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My friend offered to act as massage therapist for the entire team for three weeks,” I lied.

  “Are you sure? We don’t have the budget to pay a massage therapist,” Erica said.

  “Yes I’m sure. He’s really excited.”

  “Well, if this is true then I’ll tell Janice you come with a perk. You’re in.”

  “Thanks Erica,” I said, then ran out before she changed her mind.

  On the drive back to my campsite, I called Danny.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well I sucked in Colorado, but I’m on the team for the Tour de West. I’m going to the Tour de West!”

  “Congratulations! That’s great! Anything you need?”

  “Funny you should ask. I have a little JRA for you.”

  “Name it,” Danny said.

  “You have to come west and be the massage therapist for the team.”

  “Sure, sounds fun. I love working stage races. What are they offering?”

  “Well, nothing. You were kind of my bargaining chip to get into the race. Erica rejected me, then I told her I came with a free massage therapist, and voila, I was back on the roster. I’m really sorry. I’ll pay your transportation and for every massage.”

  “I would give you massages for free since this is huge, but seven other girls on a daily basis is crazy.”

  “Actually, it’s eight other girls. It’s a full nine riders at the Tour de West.”