The Spin Bitch Chronicles : Template

My wife (Mad Mary, her nom carried over from the horse world) and I were pulling onto the Heritage Trail in Chester to begin our warm-up on the way to Harriman State Park. I had seen two guys in an Orange & Rockland truck watching her intensely as we prepared our bikes for the ride. I thought, "Well, maybe she looks good in her new biking shorts." I figured she'd be flattered to hear about it, assuming she'd not noticed for herself. I wasn't ready for her angry reply— couldn't have imagined they'd say something inappropriate.

Her question set my hair on end. The last time we'd had an encounter at the Chester train station, it happened as we were coming in from a long hard ride and some guy sitting on a bench let his unleashed dogs run barking up to our bikes.

This is Mad Mary's first year riding. She's still new to getting out of her clips; so, when the dogs ran up, I held back to make sure I didn't become part of the problem. By the time I caught back up the guy was sneering, "You got something to say... say it out loud."

Then he turned toward me, "F***G Bikers!"

What with my endorphins and insulin surging full throttle, I couldn't stop my save-the-little-woman autopilot from tripping on. I pulled to an intense stop at the trail's entrance.

"Nobody yells at my wife for no good reason. Nobody calls me names for no good reason." Those sorts of thoughts flashed through my head on the curl of a tidal wave of rider's high hormones. I glared directly at this dog moron and prepared for the fireworks.

Actually it wasn't so much a matter of having thoughts, as it was maintaining a position. I wasn't budging an inch. If this guy wanted to learn something about endurance sports... he could just bring it on over to my geezer ass and receive his Cannondale suppository.

On the other hand I kept hearing Judge Judy in my head admonishing, "Now MR. SLINGSHOT... when this guy said this to you, why didn't you just ride away?"

So I didn't approach him. I just stood planted astride my bike full of raging macho... waiting. Fortunately this guy had more of his wits about him than I, so just mumbled some more rubbish and went the other way.

I rode out onto the street where my wife was spinning her warm down. "What was HIS problem?! You didn't say something to him, did you?"

"I called him an A__hole," she grunted.

So we had a little discussion about the exact nature of my bicycling enhanced testosterone. How it's better left unstirred. Far better not to say a word. Best not to awaken the slumbering giant.

So now after two guys in an Orange & Rockland truck had said something untoward to my wife, it's understandable that I had a nerve shattered knee jerk reaction. "Not more of this!" thinks I.

Surely this time neither of us did a thing to incite it. We had merely gotten our bikes ready for the ride. I finished putting a few extra pounds in my Calfee's tires while Mad Mary merely bent over to stick her water bottles on her new bike. Nothing wrong with that!

Her bike is the newest of the Kestrel line. She'd found it hanging in the upstairs stairwell at Joe-Fix-It's—aggressive black aero with colorful bright details, all carbon fiber, all shiny new and dangling on a wire.

She'd been smitten like a 6-year-old looking at her first two-wheeler. All grins and giggles.

But now we were on the Heritage Trail and once again in trouble.

Later I confirmed Mary had in fact seen those guys watching, was very much flattered and thought, "Guess I'm not doin' too bad for an old broad!? The driver even gave her a big smile with a "HI" as he ducked back into the cab and motioned his friend (another young buff & tan work-buck of summer) to lean over and take a look.

So why'd they have to go too far? Why say something inappropriate? My hackles were up.

Again with venom, "Did you hear what they said?"

"No..." cringed I, "What?"

"I think it's carbon—the whole bike—it's ALL carbon?"

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