The Cyclist

If there was one thing which irked Karen more than crowds, it was sporting crowds. The scarf-waving, yell-in-your-ear sort you got at football, or the let’s-all-get-dressed-up-in-our-finery- and-hypnotize-ourselves-ticking-the-seconds-and-minutes-and-hours-away-by-twisting-our necks-back-and-forth-in-synch kind you found watching tennis were, as far as she was concerned, as bad as one another. And as for this debacle, this squash-behind-the barriers, cordoning-off-of-the-streets annual farce, give her the red-light-Saturday traffic-tailback-frustration of the meant-to-make-life-easier one-way system any day of the week. Le Tour de Gillirig? A makeshift stand in the town’s public gardens? A literally blooming fox on a bike – papier mâché and petunias - who on earth came up with that? And how long before someone swiped those trailing plants for their grandmother’s patio, while their snotty-nosed infant accomplice peddled off with this year’s Freddie Fleet Tail?

Cycling was her husband, Adrian’s bag, not hers – and of this he was well aware. Besides, after almost thirty years of marriage, and her lame-excused avoidance of every town festival throughout, no point in asking her to come even if, for the first time ever, he was taking part as a serious competitor in the race… I mean, Karen, you didn’t even take our Josh when he was little, and he had to practically plead with you before you’d even think about attending his sports days… And granted, this was true, but still, there had been something about the way that Adrian had said it, something all-too dismissive. Not so much his customary ‘oh, what’s the point, I tried, but I give up’ resigned-type dismissal either, but something altogether more scathing and bitter, and this had played on her mind. Perhaps, she thought, that now he’d given up work, opting to take a severance package and voluntary redundancy at the age of fifty-five, and she, like her friend and co-worker Lynne, had cut down on her supermarket hours, Adrian had somehow assumed that in the same way that Lynne and her husband Greg had agreed to do things together once in a while, found a shared interest and begun to pursue it, they would too, except what was there? Hillwalking? Visiting relations? That’s what Lynne said they did. Well, the former was hardly practical, and other than Josh who lived miles away, and had neither married nor fathered any children that she or Adrian knew of, they had no relatives to speak of, at least none who would accept them dropping in unannounced or otherwise, no cosy Sunday dinners to cook or partake in, no grandkids to play Happy Families with. Besides, while Adrian had always cycled, lately he’d become obsessed. Buying all the latest gear. Forever training. Up and racing since retired…

‘Do you ever wonder,’ Lynne had asked one day when they’d met for coffee and Karen had voiced her concerns ‘if there might be more to this biking lark than meets the eye?’

‘You mean some sort of delayed mid-life crisis?’

‘Well, yes, partly…’

Lynne Beaumont, checkout assistant, otherwise known as L J Beau, the self-published author of more than a few ‘Mills and Boon’ style romances, Karen had read her recent work, and detected a minor departure from all the formulaic sweetness and light she’d come to expect. While the voice of Lynne’s latest protagonist hadn’t exactly been cynical, it had been more realistic and contemplative than those who had gone before her, and she recognized that voice in her friend, knew exactly to what she was referring. Still, Lynne’s writer’s hat was rarely off her head, and dusky pink as it had been of late, she’d worn it all cocked to the side that day as she’d stirred away at her Macchiato Grande, dipping in and out of the glass with that great long spoon despite having left out the sugar, the sachet in which it came turned into a now-and-then plaything for her other hand.

‘You think he’s seeing someone else? Having an affair? Oh, come on, Lynne! Twenty years ago, maybe, but now?’

‘Well, Karen, I hate to say it, but you know that look he’s got? I’ve seen it in men before, and I know you have as well.’

‘What look?’

At this point, she’d been sorely tempted to grab Lynne’s hand, to still it, to yell at her to either open the ruddy sachet and empty the contents into her mug, else put it back where it came from. Did she even want the goddamn coffee? Or was she intent on drinking it cold, having stirred out all the heat…?

‘Well, it’s kind of hard to describe, but it’s sort of in the eyes, like a glint, like they’re laughing inside, like they’ve got a secret, and in the face too, like it’s undergone a smoothing, all dressed up in its Sunday best.’

‘Sunday best! He’s never out of his sportswear these days!’

Karen had to laugh. Lynne might have been a friend, but both her poetic descriptions and imagination had been running riot that morning, so much so that she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find, in a year or so hence, a younger, prettier version of herself immortalized in publisher’s ink. And yet, thinking about it later, she couldn’t help wondering, was Lynne right?

She thought about it now, as she picked her way through the gathering crowd, the lines of spectators six or seven deep behind the barriers. More in the refreshments’ marquee, or standing by the stalls, set up largely to amuse the children, although what face-painting had to do with cycling was beyond her… Princess, pirate, butterfly, clown; what would she have been? And Adrian, what about him? His social media profile pic was exactly that – in profile. A black and white head-shot someone had taken of him whilst cycling, helmet on, focused gaze. A man-half… And she had seen the look which Lynne had described; it appeared in company, like when they’d attended Lynne’s youngest daughter, Jade’s wedding reception last month before he’d dashed away and left her claiming he had to put in the hours of training else what would be the point? There had been a smugness about him, a tight-lipped smile, an air of outdoor fresh. And the glint – she’d been aware of that too when he’d been speaking to certain people. Old acquaintances. Women. The healthy-looking sort who wouldn’t think twice about strutting their stuff on the dancefloor or getting back on their bikes…

‘You wouldn’t happen to know when the cyclists are due to come in? Can’t be long now, surely?’ The woman who was asking was around her own age, and looked about as uncomfortable in the crowd as Karen felt, beads of sweat on her forehead, yellow patches under the arms of her voluminous white cotton dress.

‘No, can’t be long…’

Karen edged her way in beside her. Not quite at the back, but almost. Could she even see from here? Perhaps at a stretch… No that was too difficult. Sideways then – between all the restless heads… And what would she see anyway?

Adrian was in the race, no doubt about that. The cycling wasn’t a ruse. It was real enough, but she’d had visions. Thoughts of him coming in first, or first equal, and taking the female rider with whom he shared the glory in his arms. Hugging and kissing her openly up on the podium, and all to the crowd’s delight… And after that? Well, here the picture wasn’t so clear, for she had to ask herself what was worse, her being a cycling widow or a wife deceived? The latter was the obvious choice, for no one wanted to be made a fool of, but far be it from her to be forced into living up to her now extremely unfashionable, questionable name and making a scene. She could just hear the townsfolk… Poor man, no wonder he took to playing away. And you say his wife’s called Karen…

‘They’re coming now, they’re coming…’ A roar from the crowd, an ear-grating amplified announcement, a thousand waving arms, applause and cheers… And there he was. Her husband. Not leading, but up there, in the first wave… And that had been her once upon a day. Not cycling, but running… Just a couple of streets to go, one more lap around the town track… Gaining momentum… Last leg…

‘Who you watching for, love?’ The woman next to her leant in.

‘My husband… He doesn’t know I’m here, though. Never usually come…’

‘Aye well, that’s understandable… Can’t be easy…’ She looked down at Karen’s leg, her damaged one. ‘Accident, was it?’

‘Could say that…’ She’d been lame for such a long time now, used to dragging the leg around, but she wasn’t going to tell a stranger that. Nor was she about to go into detail about how it happened. Not so much of an accident either… Come on, Adrian, come on, you can do it… The flash-past. Flashback… Over thirty years. Only then it had been all about ‘we’. Running and sneaking and running some more after lifting the prize. And the way he’d looked at her then, with that sunrise-sunset glint, was the look that Lynne had described, and which his first wife had recognized too, which was why she’d come after her with that crowbar, and taken from her the one thing in her young life that mattered. The only thing until Adrian…

‘Come on, love, come on, one more lap around the track, you can do it…’ Do it if you must…