I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  I thought this bike thing would be a fine, tangible way to push my boundaries, but right now, I’m defeated. And how is it that in pursuing this bucket list item, which is all about thumbing my nose at my impending mortality, I actually feel older and more useless?

  Fletch is in the kitchen making a sandwich when I enter the house.

  “How’d it go, Lance Armstrong?” he asks.

  Do I tell him that I’m an abject failure at bike riding and that purchasing a three-wheeled bike—I mean, tricycle—was a huge mistake? Do I admit that he’s been right all these years and that buying this thing was a terrible idea? Do I say we need to disassemble and return this thing in order to take advantage of Amazon’s generous return policy?

  “Ready for the Tour de France, bro,” I reply with all sorts of false bravado.

  I’m going to keep my internal struggle quiet.

  For now.

  • • •

  “Hey, Jen, feel like going for a ride later?”

  “Can’t. Conference call.”

  • • •

  “I’m thinking about taking my bike out—want to come?”

  “Wish I could, but I’m in the middle of this chapter and I can’t walk away right now.”

  • • •

  “Want to pedal over to Starbucks for an iced coffee?”

  “Oh, no, I just made myself a latte.”

  • • •

  “Are you ever going to ride your new bike?”

  “Of course!”

  Eventually.

  • • •

  I’m outside watering the plants when I sense that something is amiss in the force. “Ham? Libby? Come here, girls.” We’ve been keeping an extra close watch on them when we’re outside, but I got distracted slaying the Japanese beetles eating my Peace roses (how’s that for ironic, Alanis?) and took my eyes off them for a minute.

  I call them again, waiting for them to dash up to me, but the yard is eerily silent.

  “Guys? Come here. Hammy, Libby, come to your mumma.”

  They don’t materialize, so I call a little louder, dropping the hose and heading over to the side of the house. They’re nowhere to be seen. I hurry inside.

  “Fletch, did you let the girls in?”

  “No, I thought they were outside with you.”

  “They’re gone again! Damn it!”

  We live on a busy street, not far from the highway, and I can’t help imagining the Ding-a-ling Sisters blithely chasing each other into traffic. I grab my phone, instructing Fletch to head east while I search west. I chug along maybe fifty feet before I realize that I’m ill-equipped for running for a variety of shame-inducing reasons, hampered even more by my flip-flops and bathing suit. (I did have the foresight to pull on some cutoff sweatpants, but, still.)

  I need to cover ground quickly because Hambone’s the fastest dog I’ve ever seen and she’s still such a baby that she’ll really panic if she somehow loses her Libby. But I can’t take the car because I won’t be able to hear their collars jingling. And we’ve already determined that running is not an option.

  Without even thinking about it, I dash back to the garage and hop on my bike. I tear down the driveway, completely forgetting that I’m old and unstable and that my bike scares the pants off of me.

  I just ride.

  Fueled by adrenaline, I’m steady and quick, decades of muscle memory finally kicking in, because I’m more focused on the dogs’ safety than my own. I’ve always heard stories about moms lifting cars off their babies, so perhaps this is my equivalent.

  As I speed down the street on the way to the forest preserve, it barely registers that all it took to succeed was to stop listening to my internal critic and to just start doing.

  Perhaps I can apply this concept to the rest of my life, as well, after I find the girls, of course.

  I speed along, calling out their names, but there’s no sign of them.

  I’m about a mile away from the house when my phone rings. It’s Fletch telling me that the dogs have emerged from the woods, panting and grinning their massive pit bull smiles, so pleased to have taken themselves on yet another adventure.

  So I turn around and head for home, now conscious of being on the bike. I can feel myself growing anxious again, but I fight it, instead concentrating on how exhilarating it was to be unafraid of the consequences of letting go.

  I can’t stress this enough: I have to learn to apply this concept.

  I pull into the driveway, where Fletch is luring the girls into the house. He seems surprised to see me on my bike.

  He closes the door behind the bullies and then follows me into the garage. “You finally rode your tricycle.”

  Indeed, I finally did.

  • • •

  I put away my bike and head inside. Then I clip the girls to their leashes and take them out to the backyard, while Fletch circles around to the front. I watch as they make a beeline for the space under the house that’s blocked with stakes and a forsythia bush. The stakes came unanchored over the winter, so the girls must have recently discovered they could nudge them aside and barrel through the branches to go straight to Narnia. They don’t expect Fletch to be standing there, waiting to grab their leashes on the other side, but, really, they view seeing him as rather serendipitous and thump their tails. He immediately finds supplies to enclose the whole area, much to their profound disappointment.

  After that day, Fletch and I begin to regularly ride our bikes on the trails by our house. Every time we take a spin, I notice how much slower I am than him, even though I’m working my hardest. I have to pedal three full revolutions to travel as far as he can on one.

  “Is it possible this bike is malfunctioning? Do I need air in my tires? I can’t seem to really ‘cruise,’” I say, when we’re putting them away after a frustrating ride to Lake Bluff.

  “That’s because your tricycle weighs a thousand pounds. Have you not noticed how heavy it is? Here, lift this.” He motions to his bike and I pick it up. Although it appears really solid, it’s amazingly lightweight. “Now try yours.”

  I can’t even get the damned thing off the ground.

  “The weight creates drag. If you had a two-wheeled bike, you’d be faster.”

  I choose not to entertain this possibility. “What if I got a sheepskin cover for my bike seat? It’s relatively comfortable now, but I still can’t go more than seven or eight miles without wanting to cry because my booty hurts.”

  “That’s why you get padded bicycle shorts,” he replies.

  “You’re suggesting I wear skintight Lycra with extra cushion built in around the buttocks? In public? Not in this lifetime.”

  We make a plan to swing by the bike shop to look at squashy covers, although Fletch insists they don’t carry them, while I argue that I’m sure they do.

  We have brunch with our friends Gina and Lee and on our way home—after hitting Starbucks, of course—we stop into a high-tech bike store one town over. A short white kid greets us while we peruse the accessories section. Fletch and I immediately confer, agreeing he looks almost exactly like Spike Lee’s character in those awesome old Michael Jordan Nike commercials. It’s all I can do to not say, “Money, it’s gotta be the shoes,” back to him. However, I decide to err on the side of not sounding like a jackass, especially with a reference that so dates me.

  We scan the aisles, but I don’t really see what I’m looking for. Everything here seems more geared toward performance biking. I don’t need Pearl Izumi sun sleeves or Shimano road pedals or packets of GU energy gel supplements. Really, I could probably get by with a folded towel.

  We find Not Spike Lee again. “Hi, I’m looking for a sheepskin cover for my bike seat,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, you want a what?” he asks, squinting at us as though deeply confused.

  “Som
ething to make my bike seat squishier,” I explain. “I see a few pads, but none of them will fit.”

  “She essentially has a tractor seat,” Fletch explains.

  “A tractor seat?” he asks.

  “It’s a three-wheeled bike so the seat is bigger,” I explain.

  “No, it’s an adult tricycle,” Fletch says.

  “Honey, you’re gonna have to let that go eventually,” I reply.

  Not Spike Lee gawps at me from behind his massive horn-rim glasses and states the obvious. “You have an adult tricycle.”

  He’s looking at me as though I’m speaking gibberish. “Um, yes? That’s not weird, right? I’m sure you sell a bunch of them.”

  Not Spike Lee is vehement, his eyes swimmy behind his huge lenses. “No, not one, not ever. We don’t carry them. I didn’t even know they existed.”

  Fletch smirks. “Trust me, they’re real.”

  I add, “You can buy anything on Amazon.”

  He’s trying to process what I’m saying but it all seems to be too overwhelming. “You have a bike with three wheels.”

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat.

  “Why?”

  “Um, for balance, I guess.”

  “Can you not ride a regular bike?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been on one for thirty-plus years.”

  “You haven’t been on a bike for thirty-plus years? How have you not been on a bike in thirty-plus years?”

  Although this seems like a point where I’d normally ball my fists, ready to punch out some lights, the kid isn’t trying to mock me. Instead, he’s genuinely flummoxed and dismayed. Couple that with the fact that he works in a place where every single customer lives to ride and I can understand his attitude; thus I remain calm.

  “Because I’m forty-six. I started driving thirty years ago and I didn’t need a bike.”

  “Wow, forty-six.”

  “Wow, forty-six indeed.”

  Now I might be ready to punch him.

  Fletch chimes in, “I keep telling her that she’d be happier on two wheels.”

  “I doubt that I could stay upright,” I say, imagining myself looking like a Russian circus bear on a moped. But truth be told, I’m getting a wee bit tired of lugging all those pounds of steel around, even if they are painted a snappy cherry-cola-red. And a couple of times on the bike trail when I’ve run into the semipro riders, I sort of felt like a little kid pushing his bubble mower behind his daddy with the real Lawn-Boy.

  Is it possible that riding an actual bike should be my ultimate goal?

  “Have you even tried?” Not Spike Lee asks.

  “Have I even tried?” I reply. “No, when would I try?”

  “I dunno,” he offers. “Now?”

  Somehow over the course of the next five minutes, I am badgered, bullied, and browbeaten into test-driving a two-wheeled bike. And by badgered, bullied, and browbeaten, I mean I can’t come up with anything to counter Not Spike Lee’s rather pointed question, “Why not?”

  The easiest thing here would just be to get on a stupid two-wheel bike, give it a half-assed attempt, pick myself up off the pavement, explaining why it won’t work using terms like “circus bear” and “moped,” and find an old towel in the laundry room. Problem solved.

  Except . . . the problem really isn’t solved.

  Because apparently . . . I can actually ride a two-wheeled bike!!

  Did not see that coming.

  When we went outside, Not Spike Lee ran along beside me like a doting parent, keeping me propped up on my full-sized cruiser bike until I could make it down the sidewalk by myself. I closed my eyes and braced for an impact that never came. Instead, I was flying and I couldn’t believe how well the bike handled. How unencumbered I was without a third wheel! I made swooping figure eights in the alley behind the store, each time amazed at my ability to stay upright.

  I felt fast and free, finally.

  Not Spike Lee doubled back to grab a banana-seated kid’s model to ride behind me.

  He pulled up, asking me what I thought.

  I stopped in my tracks. “Whoa, is the one with a banana seat an option?” I asked, admiring the lines of his Stingray-type model while we pause by the Dumpsters in back of the store.

  “No. You’re forty-six. You can’t ride kids’ bikes.”

  “Did my husband tell you to say that?”

  “Yes.” He adjusted his glasses. “But I would have said it anyway.”

  • • •

  So, now we’re a family who rolls exclusively on two wheels. You’ve never seen a man whip out a credit card faster than Fletch did when I admitted that I didn’t hate the bicycle.

  I guess you could say I decided to Do the Right Thing.

  When Fletch heard that our friend’s special-needs daughter had learned to ride an adult tricycle, he dropped everything to disassemble Big Red and put her in the car so that we could give her away.

  I haven’t named the new bike yet because this one doesn’t inspire the same kind of passion that my three-wheeled bike did. But having an appropriate name isn’t nearly as important as actually succeeding at something I assumed I was destined to fail.

  Because I can now ride a bike, my world is a wee bit larger and that’s an incredible feeling. Conversely, my backseat is a wee bit smaller. That’s nice, too.

  Since I’ve been biking, I’ve discovered all kinds of pretty paths by my house, and I’m awed by the lovely things I’ve witnessed. One day, I got thisclose to a herd of deer hanging out next to the trail and later I had to brake for a family of ducks waddling across my path. I do take my phone with me when I ride, but not to monitor Facebook responses. Instead, I use it to track my mileage.

  I’m really delighted to legitimately be able to cross off learn to ride a bike because it speaks to an accomplishment, minor though it may be. But, it’s mine and I earned it and that is enough.

  I’m still not buying bike shorts, though.

  9.

  LIVING LA VIDA MARTHA

  The year 2011 blew goats.

  Yes, I just made a Wayne’s World reference because I’m all about the classics.

  To keep 2012 from following suit, I came up with a yearlong project in which I decided to live my life via Martha Stewart’s dictates, spanning the domestic spectrum from cooking to crafting to cleaning. From apple cider vinegar to zucchini fritters, I quickly discovered that there’s nothing Martha hasn’t mastered, at least under the roof of one’s house. My theory was that if I could whip my home life into shape, I would be a happier person.

  Spoiler alert: Despite an almost pathological need to derail myself, my plan worked, but that’s a whole different memoir.

  In April of 2012, I’d barely scratched the surface of the Martha Universe, having tackled only some minor closet organization and one disastrous Easter party at that point, which had culminated in a couple of visits to the emergency room.

  (Sidebar: Sometimes my learning curve looks more like a learning roller coaster.)

  One of the reasons I was so damn crabby in 2011 was my frustration over not having had any traction in Hollywood. (What’s my favorite wine? “But aaaaaaaall my friends have moooooovie deals.”) In the very beginning of my writing career, I spent an entire day at my temp job fielding calls from film studios.

  That was surreal.

  There I was in a corporate real estate office, making twelve dollars an hour, sitting at a desk that wasn’t even officially mine. I was just assigned there until the real assistant who was out having knee surgery could come back. I spent my days looking at framed pictures of her family, using her stapler, and trying not to eat all the M&M’S in her jar. (Failed, FYI.) Yet for a very brief period, I also was using that full-time employee’s phone (having been too broke
for my own cell phone) to talk with producers who asked me questions such as whether I preferred to work with Reese or Jennifer.

  Um, wait, which Jennifer? Aniston or Garner?

  Guess what?

  NOT PICKY.

  Another spoiler alert? Nothing ever happened.

  In terms of bucket list items, selling a book to Hollywood would have been at the very top of mine for many years, because I assumed that was my segue into wealth and power, or at least out of taking the bus to work. Yes, I liked the idea of cashing a Tinseltown check and finally bringing all my past-dues current, plus who wouldn’t want to sit in a dark theater and see their name on the screen.

  (Sidebar: If so doing happened to get back to everyone who went to my high school and called me a drama nerd? In your face, A-list. In your face.)

  Every morning back then, I’d wake up with the lines to The The’s song “This Is The Day” in my head while I showered. I would hope against hope that this really would be the day that my life would truly change, and that this would be the last time I’d have to answer phones and schedule meetings for anyone other than myself.

  I quickly learned that Hollywood operates on the basis of whatever is new is best, so I was the flavor not of the month but of the minute. I spent two more years fetching coffee and making copies as I built my writing career to the point I could quit taking temp gigs and write full-time.

  I kept writing while waiting for Hollywood to call.

  They never did.

  So, when my film agent Tiffany called me out of the blue in April 2012, shortly into my Tao of Martha experiment, I never expected to hear her ask, “How do you feel about doing a show with Martha Stewart? Is that something you’d want?”