Boomer and Cube go for a bike ride

“I really think she’s into me,” Boomer said, watching the tall, strawberry blond waitress run off to get our drinks.  She was good looking in a wholesome way.  She was probably 25 or so, whereas Boomer was almost 19.  I was well into my 20^th year.  (I was 19), so I figured I had a much better shot with her.

“Why don’t you just take her friend,” I suggested, referring to the girl neither of us had seen, but were destined to meet the following night, “Surely she’s more into you than Laura.  She hasn’t met you yet.”

Somehow, Boomer and I had coerced the girl to bring a friend the next night for drinks. Wednesday, according to Laura, was her night off.  We had become regulars at the lounge below the dinner theater downtown.  It was one of the few places in town an underage guy could get a drink and unlike Louis’, it was filled with hotties.  They weren’t called hotties back then, though.  They were called foxes, but anyway.

“Well whatever.  I don’t care.  It’s just that she said her friend was a brunette …,” Boomer reminded me, knowing I was a complete sucker for dark hair.

“Enough about that shit.  Were you serious about riding to work tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yeah – you know I’ve been riding a lot in Lincoln.  I’m pretty good now.  I don’t think you’ll be dropping me this year.”

“Oh that’s nice.  Alrighty then.  Let’s ride to work,” I was overconfident.  I hadn’t been on my bike for months.  I was a masher.  I had never heard of spinning.  Boomer learned about it at school from other cyclists. 

The plan was to ride from the neighborhood out to work, which was about 12 miles.  We both worked at the cabinet shop, so we risked ridicule from the big manly men.  But we sort of thrived on that. 

Early the next day, I rode the 8 blocks or so up to Boomer’s house.  I was wearing my sensible bike shorts.  I had on a nice pocket T and some LOOK shoes that were designed with the clipless system in mind, but I still had toe clips.  I had some really nice crew length white socks to complete the ensemble, and my helmet, as always, was probably somewhere in the garage.  The shorts were specially designed for riding.  Cannondale was the brand name.  They had a zipper, pockets and a snap.  Pretty much everything you’d expect on a pair of shorts that had nothing to do with biking.  The only thing that distinguished them as official bike gear and not just a pair of two dollar casual shorts from Target was that they cost 31 dollars.  Oh and I bought them from Olympia on 40^th and Hamilton. 

Clipped onto the pocket of my “bike” shorts was my craftsman 20’ tape measure.  Scratched crudely across the top of the tape measure were the letters C-U-B-E, as instructed by Roland at the cabinet shop.

Fade to cabinet shop memory …

“You might wanna put your name on that or sumpin.  There’s a lot of foreigners working here,” Roland told me. 

“And they want to steal my tape measure?”  I asked in all sarcasm.

“You never know,” Roland responded in all seriousness.

Then we both stood there for a moment, hands in our pockets, looking off into the distance through an open garage door at the cabinet shop, contemplating just how dishonest foreigners can be.  Perhaps the silence went on too long because Roland abruptly jerked to alertness as if waking from a nightmare, “Well anyway, get your name scratched on there and start measuring some pieces of wood or something, kid.”

And off he went.  Leaving me to measure wood, if you know what I mean.  Hardy har har.  I’m pretty sure if he’s still alive, he drives a pickup truck, the back window covered with a stunning scene of a waving American flag behind the profile of an extremely serious bald eagle.  You can tell the eagle is upset about something.  It’s almost certain that the events of 911 will haunt that eagle until the end of time.  Or at least until Roland trades that pickup in for a Prius (at which time, the terrorists win). 

Anyway – flashback level 2 will now meld back into flashback number one.

Arriving at Boomer’s house, I was already feeling tired and trying to look fresh.  Boomer was waiting, sipping on a cup of coffee and smoking a Salem.  Then as he stood to mount his bike, I realized he had done it.  Boomer was the first person I knew personally to go full Lycra.  I had to look away due to my modest Midwestern sensibilities.  I knew I had always wanted to wear clothing like that when I rode, but I didn’t dare.  I didn’t even think it was legal.  That settles it.  First thing tomorrow …

We took off easily enough.  We were going from about 50^th and dodge to 144^th and Industrial road.  So naturally since we were 19, we didn’t even dream of taking any route other than what we normally took in our cars.  60^th street to L street to 144^th and industrial.  Heavy traffic.  Especially heavy truck traffic.  Lots of honking.  Probably because of Boomer’s cool shorts, but we hardly noticed.  What I did notice though was Boomer was better.  A lot better.  He was in such an easy gear I couldn’t believe how fast he was going.  I thought the only way I’d be able to catch up with him would be to get into a bigger gear and push harder.  Of course that didn’t work.  Boomer dropped me hard on the hill up to 84^th street and waited at the top, sipping his coffee, smoking his cigarette, etc.

“Told you,” Boomer said.

“No shit.  You are good.  I mean I think I’m about the same as I always was and I can’t keep up with you,” I confessed.

“Yup.  Um I hate to tell you this, because you’ll get better fast, but you want to be pedaling at no less than 90 rpms.  Otherwise, you’ll tire out too quickly.  It’s called spinning.”

“90 RPMs?  Spinning?  I don’t think so,”

“Just try it.  It’s not like you’ll go any slower.” Boomer observed.

I wasn’t able to pull the rest of the way to the shop, but I wasn’t getting dropped as hard either.  It was amazing.  Now I hate to tell you this, reader (Wesley), because you’ll get better fast, but 90 RPMs is still too slow.  Get on some rollers were you’ll hang out at 110 for long periods.  Take that shit on the roads and you’ll see speeds you’ve never seen before.  I think probably the higher the better.  I’m sure there’s no upper limit.  That’s why I’m now training at about 600 rpms.  But of course that’s metric so you do the math.

At work that day, my legs were all wobbly and I dreaded the idea of the ride home.  Plus we still had to go meet those girls downtown later on.  I think Jim, my roommate, sensed all this and asked Boomer and me if we needed a ride home.  Yes.  What a life saver.  Obviously, I said to Jim:

“Well I think I’d rather just get another good ride in today, but ask Boomer.  If he doesn’t want to ride the bike back, we’ll both go with you.”

So in classic Boomer and Cube form, we added a few miles to the bike ride on the way home, just because.

Dying up one of the last hills, just hoping I can make it all the way home in the autumn heat, Boomer came up with a life saver of a plan and began to sing our favorite customized song,

“Treat me like a fool,” Boomer began in his best Elvis Presley voice.

 I was obliged to continue, “Treat me mean and cruel,”

Then both of us, “But love me …”

“Tie me to a chair,” Boomer wailed.

“Burn my pubic hair,” I finished.

Then both, “But Love me.”

“Well if-a you ever go …” and so on.

Then I did the farmer nose blow snot thing, and a big chunk of brownish sawdust-snot came out. 

Damn that was cool.