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Maternity Leave

Page 32

by Trish Felice Cohen


  The race officials informed me that I had been disqualified and that I would not be permitted to start the last stage.

  “For what?” I replied.

  “You’re kidding, right?” the young official responded.

  “No, I’m dead serious,” I said. “I didn’t rig a bridge or tell anyone else to. Besides, after it was rigged, I tried to avoid taking the Yellow Jersey and protested taking the lead. Then, I gave back the time I didn’t rightfully gain.”

  “We’ve confirmed that you weren’t involved in the bridge incident. That’s not why we’re disqualifying you. You took a maternity leave to race but have no baby. That’s extremely suspect.”

  “That has nothing to do with this race,” I insisted passionately.

  “It just doesn’t seem right to let you race.”

  “I didn’t kill a baby, and I’m in fourth place. I’m not exactly deciding the outcome but I’m close enough to make it a heartbreaker. If it turns out later that I’m a baby killer and bridge rigger, you can disqualify me and take back my prize money. If you disqualify me now and I turn out to be innocent, I have no recourse.”

  “Are you a baby killer?”

  “No. I know Casey Anthony gave Florida moms a bad name, but I’m not a baby killer and I’m not even a mother. I’m a frustrated lawyer who needed to find a way to race her bike.”

  “How are you on maternity leave?” They still hadn’t put two and two together, yet.

  “I faked a pregnancy so that I could compete in this race.”

  “That’s fraud, which is unsportsmanlike. You’re not racing,” the official said firmly.

  “That’s a very broad reading of the ‘unsportsmanlike’ clause,” I argued, referring to the cycling rule book that I’d never actually read. “Don’t you think my time in jail will be punishment enough for my unsportsmanlike conduct?”

  “That’s completely unrelated to this.”

  “My point exactly,” I said.

  “You’re not racing.”

  Hmm. Do I go with guilt and gentle persuasion, or threats? I started with the former.

  “Come on, my boss is a total douche bag and I work for insurance companies, it’s not like I made a mom and pop shop fund this trip. I really love cycling and my one wish before I become disbarred, arrested, and destitute is to finish this race.”

  “I’m sorry. The decision is final,” the shorter official said.

  I had no choice but to escalate to threats. “I’ll sue.”

  “Sue who?”

  “You, USA Cycling, the race promoters.”

  “For what?”

  I looked him in the eye and started spouting off nonsense, mostly in Latin, “Forum non convenienes, demurer, ipso facto, mandamus, certiorari, quantum meruit, in limine, lis pendens, res ipsa loquitur, and sua sponte.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You’ll find out,” I said in my most threatening voice.

  The officials looked at each other in confusion, then responded in unison, “Fine, you can race.”

  “Great, see you out there,” I said.

  I finished eating and got ready. We had a team meeting before the race. I was only four seconds out of third place, so standing on the overall podium was technically possible if anyone in positions one through three crashed out, or if I placed in the top three today and picked up bonus seconds. I didn’t want option one and option two was highly unlikely unless I was in a breakaway, which never happens on the last stage, since all the big teams want to win and won’t let anyone get away. Because of my abysmal sprinting, the team agreed it would work for Brenda and Alyssa today unless I got into a break, in which case the team would block for me by setting a tempo slower than my speed, but fast enough so that no one would try to attack.

  * * *

  As I approached the start, I heard someone call out, “Pearl.” No one calls me by my middle name except my dad and it sounded a lot like him. I turned around to see my parents standing there.

  “Did you come to see me race?” I asked in disbelief.

  “No, we came to bail you out of jail.” Their expressions definitely looked more like concerned parents instead of proud supporters. I gave them both a hug.

  “You may still have your chance, but I have to go now,” I said.

  “Here, Jenna, wear this,” said Dad.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “It’s a specially designed cycling mask. It’s fiberglass and fits the contours of your face and under your helmet. There’s a space for sunglasses, too.”

  “How did you get the contours of my face?” I asked as I held the mask up to my face, amazed at how well it fit.

  “Your undertaker brother made a mold with the same material he uses to reconstruct accident victim’s faces,” Mom said proudly.

  I smirked that they were proud of their kid molding dead people’s faces but concerned about their athlete. Then I looked at the mask which was beyond goofy. “What’s with the big nose and mouth?” I asked.

  “It’s a built-in airbag and trip wire system,” explained Dad proudly. “If you face-plant, the second the long nose touches the pavement the mini airbag goes off and your face is saved.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I also have this Hannibal Lecter model you could wear if you prefer,” said Dad, holding up an equally ridiculous looking contraption.

  “I’m not wearing a mask,” I insisted.

  “Please,” Dad implored, sounding both concerned and non-negotiable. “I even have a cutout for your peripheral vision.”

  “Is that what that is?” I asked. “I thought it was a hole for what’s left of my dignity to seep out during the race.”

  “Wear the mask for your father, Jenna.” Mom said sternly. “He’s been buying off Tampa judges for the last twenty-four hours and I think he has more work ahead to keep you out of jail back there.”

  “Sweet,” I said, “I can’t believe I’ve been worrying. I forgot how corrupt Tampa is.”

  “The mask,” Dad said.

  “Fine, I’ll wear the mask. It will be a good disguise from the media.”

  “One more thing, Jenna,” said Dad. “Can you race on the sidewalk? The street makes us very nervous.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was making a joke or really thought this was a safe alternative. “That’s not going to happen,” I said. “But don’t worry, the course is cut off to traffic.”

  The mask fit right under my helmet and was lightweight and ventilated. I rode to the start, excited by the prospect of racing my bike after the last twenty-four hours of hell. Obviously, my number one goal for the race was to place on the podium on today’s stage, securing a third place overall finish. A not-too-distant secondary goal was to not place last. My third goal was to avoid testing out the airbag-facemask in front of my parents.

  After taking it easy for the first sixty miles, mimicking the ceremonial ride into Paris of the Tour de France, the race started in earnest as we entered the city limits of Seattle. The course through Seattle was a two-mile circuit but had tight corners like a criterium. I instantly moved into last place, barely hanging on, as soon as the circuit began. The race became strung out in a line almost a quarter-mile long, consisting of the ninety-two women that were still in the race after three long weeks and 1,855 miles. Every few minutes, the race slowed down a fraction when one breakaway was caught and the next attempted to get away. Normally, I’d use these moments to take my hand off the bars and get a drink, or just to breathe, but today I kept going. I made up twenty spots in two city blocks before the pace stepped up again. I didn’t want to lose the position, so I forced myself to move my hands. Normally, I ride with my hands hovering over the brakes and tap them frequently. In an effort to avoid touching them, I removed my fingers from their vicinity. It was scary, but I held my place through the corner, then another corner. The next time the pace slowed, I accelerated another fifteen spots, putting me within the first one-third of th
e pack. For the first time in a professional race, I could actually see the front of the peloton in a criterium.

  With one two-mile lap remaining, I was still positioned in the front third. Now the jockeying for position began in earnest. A rider came up on my left as we entered a right hand turn and tried to pinch me into the corner. Instead of touching my brakes, I stuck my elbow out and held her at elbow length; a perfectly legal move in cycling I had always been afraid to try at high speed because if it doesn’t work, you’re pinched in the corner. It worked. On the next turn, I intentionally took the inside line with my elbow out to deter anyone from getting near me. I made up three spots in the corner instead of losing ten.

  Instead of concentrating on my fear, I fixated on the lyrics to that song “Move Bitch”, by Ludacris.I was practically singing aloud. Move Bitch, Get Out the Way, Get Out the Way Bitch, Get Out the Way. It worked beautifully. All I knew was the chorus, but that’s the inspiring part. By the time we rounded the last corner, I sat in sixth position. Entering the final straightaway, I saw Brenda jump on my right. Instead of checking behind me to see if anyone was on her wheel, which there surely was, I pounced, knowing that Brenda always found a way through the pack. I positioned my bike one inch behind Brenda’s rear wheel and after sitting in her draft for three seconds, accelerated up the left hand side of the pack through a very narrow opening, crossing the finish line third on the stage, thus securing third place overall for the Tour de West.

  I screamed and raised my arms in triumph. I made such a spectacle of myself that the winner of the stage turned around to inform me that she and second place both beat me by over a wheel’s length, a sizable margin in cycling.

  “Good for you,” I said as I continued with my victory lap, hands in the air, screaming, “Yo, Adriane! I did it!” I had no idea why I was imitating Rocky, and neither did the winner, but there I was. The winner looked very confused. I started to explain, since she was from one of the European teams, but instead yelled directly to her, “Yo, Adriane! I did it!” Whereupon she punched me square in the face. I didn’t feel a thing other than the heat from the two small airbags in the mask. I laughed. Nothing could keep me down. The whole team, including Brenda and Alyssa, plus Erica and Danny, were all hugging me.

  * * *

  I stood on the third step of the podium for the award ceremony. It took all of my self-control not to cry like Miss America as I held up my flowers. Despite all of the adversity, I’d done it. I’d gotten out of my office, raced as a pro, learned how to sprint and kicked ass at the biggest women’s cycling race in history. From the podium, I could see my parents cheering for me. As I walked over to them after the ceremony, I passed Alyssa. “Good job,” she said. She was smiling with no indication that she was pissed at being beaten by the climber.

  “That was pretty impressive,” Dad said. “And I mean both getting third place and not dying.”

  “It really was,” Mom said, as they both hugged me.

  “Now, back to reality,” Dad said, content that the reverie had gone on long enough. “You’re fucked.”

  “Thanks for the buzz kill Dad. Let’s talk about it later. I want to enjoy this moment a bit longer.”

  Mom hugged me again, this time knocking into my ribs. “Oh my God, you’re so thin,” she said.

  I turned away so she couldn’t see my hollowed out cheekbones. “That’s what happens when you race your bike over a hundred miles a day for three weeks. Don’t worry, I’ll gain it back.” I said this with the utmost sincerity so she wouldn’t try to commit me to an eating disorder clinic. As a Jewish mother and guidance counselor, she had a tendency to be hyper suspicious of anorexia.

  “How long are you going to be out west?” I asked my parents, mostly to change the topic.

  “As long as our baby needs us,” my mom said, half seriously.

  “Great, hang around for the next sixty years or so because I am a fuck-up.”

  “No arguments here,” Dad said, with a smile. “How long are you staying out here?”

  “I’m planning to start driving back with Danny and Sonny tomorrow.”

  “Do you want to get dinner tonight?” Dad asked.

  “Yes, but much later. I need to collect my prize money now,” then added, “for third today and third overall.”

  My parents responded with a deer-in-headlights look. They knew by my tone that congratulations were in order, but they had no idea what I was talking about. I could see the wheels spinning and knew they were thinking, How did she get third place twice” I let it go. “I also need to go back to the host house and pack up. I’ll call you later.”

  When I got back to the house, Alyssa was packing. She was wearing a Sunshine Cycling shirt, jeans and flip flops, the exact outfit I was wearing, but somehow it looked dressier on her. “Congratulations, speedy,” she said.

  “Thanks. So, what are you going to do now?”

  “Fly back to Georgia,” she replied.

  “Want a ride? You can go with Danny and me.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, closing the hard case containing her bicycle. She hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then began walking away.

  I stared at her, debating whether to let it go or confront her. I took a deep breath so that I could get a last whiff of her lotion or shampoo or whatever made her smell so good, and decided to let her go. But once she got near the door, I panicked. I barely knew her but I was interested in her, a rarity for me. “What the hell is with your wall?” I blurted out. “I am killing myself trying to figure you out.”

  “I don’t know. The wall comes and goes. I’m fickle, what can I say.”

  “What are you looking for?” I asked incredulously. “I’m hot, smart, a cyclist, funny, well-employed, or at least I was well-employed, I treat you well and I cut my nails off.”

  Alyssa continued her flippancy. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

  I knew I should let it go, but I couldn’t. I was starting to seriously dislike her but was worried I’d never meet another girl that was hot and into women even if they existed somewhere in the universe in droves. Or, even if I did, that I wouldn’t know since I had such terrible gaydar. I needed to go all out even if she was borderline bipolar. “You were looking for that last week and yesterday,” I said. “Why not today?”

  “I don’t know,” Alyssa said, her tone suddenly serious. “Haven’t you ever just changed your mind?”

  “Yes, but always for a reason,” I said. “What about now? It’s been a few minutes, are you into me now?”

  Alyssa laughed. “I like you a lot Jenna. I need to figure things out. I’ll call you.”

  Alyssa started to walk off. As I stared at her perfect ass in her jeans I lost any shred of my remaining dignity and asked, “Well you need a ride to the airport, don’t you?” As the words came out of my mouth my self-loathing spiked, but I thought that if we could just hang out a little more, she’d like me again. Then I could figure whether I really wanted to be with her or not.

  “That’s okay, thanks,” Alyssa said.

  I sat there staring at the door. My trance was interrupted by Danny, who walked up to me, saw my expression and asked seriously, “What just happened?”

  “I just got nicely dumped again. No biggie.”

  “When did you get back together?” Danny asked.

  “Last night. You just missed me making a complete ass of myself, begging her to like me. I don’t recognize myself. I’ve always hated people that breakup and get back together. One shot, that’s it. I’m pathetically obsessed with a person I’ve known for less than a month and she’s a total head case. I want her to like me even though I kind of hate her and want nothing but the worst for her. What’s my problem?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you you’re losing it. Were you crying on the podium?” Danny asked.

  “A drop or so. What’s happening to me?”

  “You’ve had three weeks of highs and lows and
passion and lots of other crap. You’ll be your normal jaded self once you return to your life of sitting in your office watching life pass you by.”

  “Glad to hear there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Actually, as pathetic as that life was, at least I wasn’t chasing pathetically after people who weren’t the least bit into me. Maybe I should just go sit in an office until I die so I can die with dignity.”

  “First, being a lawyer isn’t pathetic and second, aren’t you forgetting that you’ll probably never practice law again?”

  “Whatever. I can’t say I’ll miss it. I’ll just miss the paycheck.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Danny asked.

  “I guess we’ll pack up and leave tomorrow,” I responded.

  “No,” Danny said, “for your life.”

  “Other than race my bike and get back together with a psycho who doesn’t like me, I don’t know. I’m only twenty-eight. I didn’t think this crisis would happen to me for at least another ten years.”

  “What can I say?” Danny said. “You’re a prodigy.”

  “Thanks. I’m going out with my parents for dinner tonight. Want to come?”

  “That’s okay, they’re going to give you some tough love and I don’t think I can watch my cynical lawyer friend cry twice in one day.”

  “I think I’ll hold it together,” I said. “See you tomorrow. I’ll complain the whole way home and bitch about everyone, just like old times.”

  “That sounds great,” Danny said sarcastically. “In the meantime, relax. Seriously, you always come out smelling like a rose and this will be no different.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grateful for Danny’s undying faith in my cynicism and resiliency. “And thanks for coming and everything else. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 

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