“Knock on my bedroom door when you’re home for the night please.”
“I will.”
“Loves you Laney-loo.”
“Loves you too Deedle-poo.”
We share a giggle at the ridiculous nicknames we started using when we first moved in together after college. It puts a smile on both of our faces to come home and call out to the other.
Eight years later I think we qualify for a domestic partnership. I bet we could put those nicknames on the license.
And, if I don’t earn my pro card this year I might need her to marry me. I’m barely scraping by with deliveries at her family’s restaurant, Curryosity, selling anything that someone might consider valuable on FB marketplace, and dog walking gigs.
I check traffic and turn onto the road to start my trip. It is going to take less than ten minutes but it's enough time for me to mentally balance my bank account.
Again.
Dee’s family pays me at the end of each shift so I’ll be able to add the hundred bucks from tonight to my account before rent is due on Monday.
I’ve paid all the race fees for this summer already but I need to plan ahead for next year.
Will I be racing next year?
If I don’t qualify for the world championships this year will I want to continue?
Is this feeling of “I’ve got one more in me” what fueled my dad to race year after year despite the derision he earned from my mom for it?
Given her lack of support for my dad I don’t even bother updating her on my racing.
I pass the road that would take me to the farmer’s market grounds. The summer mornings she and I spent there waiting for dad to meet us after his training were bright childhoodmemories, until I became aware of the dynamics at play in their relationship.
Two more turns and I pull up to the building. Locking up my second-hand, frame-held-together-with-duck-tape-after-I-got-in-a-fight-with-a-pot-hole-and-lost bike to the fence, reminds me to focus on the here and now. Not the past.
My toes pinch inside my cycling shoes which are a half size too small as I walk up to the door. I bought them at a cycle studio closing sale. This means my feet don’t move much when I’m clipped in so there’s less chance of blisters. But it also means there’s barely any spare room so I’m leaning towards no socks for the bike leg this weekend.
Plus, it’ll be faster to just jam my feet in and go.
Someday I'll have a sponsor who can get me outfitted with the top gear for races and training.
I just gotta earn my pro card and qualify for Worlds first.
Easy as a 2.4 mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, followed by a quick 26.2-mile run.
Chapter two
Miguel
Blonde Banshee
“Whatisitcalledwhen someone loves pain?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “Masochism?”
Fingers snap in the background of the phone call. “That’s it.”
“J, I’m not a masochist.” I explain to my mentor, sponsor, friend, Jeff.
“Well then I don’t know what else to call you.”
