Sweet Sorrows

Sweet Sorrows
 
It is the social event of the year if you are a member of the Hunt Valley Velo Club. Not a club in the sense that we pay dues hold club meetings or vote for officers. We are a loosely organized group of bicycle riders of all ages and stripes that, weather willing, ride a couple of weekday evenings during daylight savings time.
 
That social event of the year is what we call the Summer Solstice Ride and Party. We hold it on the longest day of the year, or thereabouts, and because there's maximum daylight, it is our longest ride of the year, typically thirty-five miles. Afterward, we do a tailgate party in the parking lot where we started. It is a potluck affair. Everyone contributes a dish that either they make () or buy, and there are plenty of spirits to go with it. Bottles of Zinfandel, Riesling, Merlot, Yuengling, Corona, and Heineken sit in ice-filled coolers next to tables set up on the lot.
 
But that was not the case this year. In this post-Covid era (well, almost post, depending on if you've been vaccinated and/or where you live), Bradley Davies, one of our members, agreed to host the party at his house, a tastefully appointed, grey suburban abode, replete with driveway and a two-car garage, set in a wooded cul-de-sac in a tony region of the county. For assorted reasons, not all Hunt Valley members signed up for the ride, only the party. Only about ten of us, middle-agers to seniors, did. Half of us left Bradley's house at five in the afternoon, heading northwest through suburban and semi-rural regions of the county, one of the hilliest counties east of Westminster.
 
This solstice ride, like those in the past, was purely social: hammerheads need not apply unless they were willing to leave their egos at home. Our other rides could get quite competitive for the group's strongest riders, but not this one, where the pace was under fourteen miles an hour.
 
Bradley, a balding, heavyset, transplanted Brit in his early sixties, led the way because he knew the route. At age seventy, I, Jon Beckmann, was the elder political leader but still one of the better hill climbers.
Once a competitive powerlifter standing just under five-eight and tipping the scales at close to two hundred, I had dropped over thirty-five pounds in deference to being more efficient on the bike. Natalie, my lithe, sixty-something sister (who looked ten years younger) was there, along with Sofia, a petite, forty-something newbie. There was Ben Weber, still a speedster at age sixty-four, and Rhonda, his white-haired, fifty-something girlfriend, who was not so fast but had persuaded Ben to buy a tandem so they could ride together. Frank, a fifty-something lawyer from New York and Dennis, at forty-one, the youngest among us and a medical doctor, came along, and so did Kelsey Cadieux. More about her later. Much more.
 
The night was perfect for riding--temps in the seventies, with low humidity, a rare kind of summer weather for our region, known for its heat and humidity. The weather was also ideal for the party because most of it was held inside Bradley's spacious screened-in porch. When we arrived back at the house around seven-thirty, close to twenty Hunt Valley Velo members were already partying, overseen by Amelia, Bradley's gracious wife.
 
After racking my bike, I slipped on a pair of jeans over my spandex shorts, tossed aside my cycling shirt for a long-sleeve Baltimore Ravens jersey, and bagged my cycling cleats for cross-trainers. A shower would have been nice, but I was not about to ask our hosts for it. The low humidity had kept sweating to a minimum, so I did not think I stunk that bad, if at all.
 
If there is no more refreshing drink than a beer after a bike ride, I do not know about it.  
 
Thus, I grabbed a bottle of Yuengling from one of the coolers on the porch, then mingled among these cycling-obsessed folks, who like me, were either imbibing from bottles of sudsy brew or sipping the various wines that, like the food, was sitting on a long table in the dining room, a few steps from the porch. My packs of California Roll that I had stuffed into the Davies’ stainless-steel fridge before the ride, were among all those bowls of delicious-looking salads, sandwiches, and pastry.
 
Dimly lit by hanging lanterns, the wood porch, painted, like the house, a light gray, afforded a pastoral view of undeveloped land, its sole occupants being tall trees and thick green foliage. By anybody is a reckoning, it was an ideal place to hold a summer party. I knew about everyone there, including Russ Hanover and his wife Julie. Russ had been sidelined since May after a horrendous bike crash that had shattered his right elbow and required surgery. He sat with his healing but still sensitive elbow resting on a small pillow on his chair's armrest. Lanky, six-foot-two Russ had been among the club's strongest riders, strong enough to where he could ride with the elite of other clubs. Julie, like Russ, was retired but teaching cello part-time, joked that Russ now got most of his exercise pulling up weeds from their lawn. Further discussion with Julie revolved around music, the cello concertos of Haydn, Boccherini, and Dvorak.
 
Debra "monster calves" Krause, dressed in a cool Panama hat, yellow slacks, and orange sneakers, showed up with her small brown pooch. Chic Dora Rosen, deeply tanned from a recent beach vacation, made an appearance, looking smashingly hot in tight black jeans and a low-cut blouse. Dora always reminded us of her birthday but refused to give her age. Based on subtle hints I had heard over the years, she had to be either sixty or pushing it. Dora was the only one left of the group that I had joined exactly twenty years ago, and she made a big deal about it. Never married, she said,  
 
"Ron is the longest male relationship I've ever had." She puckered up her red-painted lips for an "anniversary" kiss, while we stood in the dining room with our arms around each other's shoulders, posing for Natalie's cell phone camera. Dora and my sister Natalie were prime examples of what the "right" genes and regular exercise could do for an aging woman's body.
 
I was single also (divorced), single and feeling that weird juxtaposition that many fit men my age feel, old and young at the same time. Old, or at least too old to couple-up with a much younger woman, yet young enough in body and spirit to do so, not to mention strong and fit, youthful-looking in physicality and sexual energy. It is part illusion, the part reality that such a man could get something going with a younger woman if only she could get past the graying hair (or baldness), the white whiskers, and the age number itself. Do not kid yourselves, you septuagenarians, age is more than JUST a number.
 
I mentioned Sofia. After the ride, busty Sofia slipped into cut-off jeans and a tight orange and black pullover. She looked to be around five-foot-two, well proportioned, with a boss (an archaic adjective, I know, but I still use it) pair of legs, especially her hamstrings (athletic dudes like me notice anatomical specifics like hamstrings). She was on the quiet side, perhaps because she was from another country, somewhere in Europe based on her heavy accent. She had dark hair and eyes and thin lips that rarely stretched for a smile. She did manage to smile after I had helped pump up her tires before the ride and then appeared to flirt with me at the party. She does not know my age, I thought.
 
For me, the major surprise, sort of, was Kelsey Cadieux. Ben Weber had told me she might show (she had relatives in Maryland that she visited about once a year) but he was not sure. I had not seen her in five years, not since she had moved back to her native Seattle. Like Dora, she had never married. Also, like Dora, she looked great for her age, mid-fifties I was guessing. I had never asked, nor had she ever volunteered to tell. Some women looked ridiculous wearing their hair long in a futile attempt to look years younger. Not Kelsey, whose dirty-blond, Lady Godiva locks dropped to the middle of her back. The skin on her face still had this fine sheen, just the way I remembered it, and she looked like she had not gained a pound in five years.
 
As noted, she was along for the ride, but I did not see her until miles into the route because she rode in a sub-group that had left Bradley's place about twenty minutes later. She and her cohorts took a shortcut, which enabled them to catch up to us. When our two groups stopped to chat, she wheeled her rented hybrid bicycle up to mine and gave me a big hug. "Ron, how are you?!"
 
She smelled great, despite perspiring--even because of it. She had her hair tied under her helmet and, as always, she looked hot in spandex. "Doing well," I said. "Enjoying retirement, pursuing my passions, and still searching for the meaning of life." She laughed because that last part was an inside joke between us. Years before, when she was in the club, we would engage in these philosophical discussions about "meaning."  
 
It took us a while before we realized that we could not come to a definitive answer.  
 
When we began riding again, she did remind me about the Dalai Lama's take on life's meaning--to be happy and useful. We rode side-by-side, catching up on each other's lives. A graphic artist, she now worked part-time and had joined a cycling group in Seattle. I did not ask about her love life, nor did she ask about mine.
 
In case you might be wondering, Kelsey and I were more than just riding friends years ago, during the Obama administration. We had a past, as they say. We had a connection, chemistry--yes, those twin clichés used when attraction works both ways, as it did for us. Those philosophical discussions, with some politics thrown in, led to romance, played out in our cars after a ride, when the other riders had left. Kelsey did not want to take it further, did not want me coming back to her place or her to mine.  
 
She wanted to but backed away because she knew her move to Maryland was temporary and thought getting involved further would lead to heartbreak. "I don't want to date you, but I do want to get physical with you," is what she told me.
 
I always had the feeling that she had experienced some big hurt (or hurts) years earlier.  
 
I probed and prodded but got no further than vague answers and not-so-subtle hints to cease. She was an odd duck--I knew that, and knew, or at least sensed, that she had problems with intimacy. But she was so pretty and funny, too, as well as bright and articulate. I wanted more but was willing to play by her rules because I loved spending time with her, riding with her, and getting "physical" with her, even though our playtime was confined to my Honda Cross tour.
After slipping off our riding duds, she would straddle my lap, riding my cock as I danced my tongue over her smooth tummy and breasts, small but firm. Sometimes, I would fold the rear seats down (more room, more positions). She did not hold back either, letting her body do all it could do in that small space, expressing herself freely with her voice. Indeed, nobody within earshot of the car would have had to guess what was going on.
 
We did not always have sex. We mostly just smooched and held each other. I loved her but never said. She hinted that she loved me but never said. It was an odd relationship, to say the least, and one, save for a few emails, which ended when she returned to Seattle.
 
Which leads me back to the party. After our chat on the road, our sub-groups split up again. My group rode faster, so I arrived at the party before Kelsey did, grabbed that Yuengling and chatted with Russ, Dora, and Julie, et al. Kelsey arrived less than a half-hour later, changed into a dress designed with three broad stripes, navy, green and gray. "The official colors of the Seattle Seahawks, you know," she told me. I did not know, nor did I know she was a football fan. "See, that's one thing you didn't know about me," she said, wearing a mock, smart-ass kind of grin. There were lots of things I did not know about her, but I did not go there. We were there to have fun, not delve into weighty matters, personal or otherwise.
 
We piled food on our paper plates and mingled with other people. Kelsey screamed for joy when she saw Crissy Dewar. The women, who had not seen each other since Kelsey left Maryland, embraced, and spent the next few minutes playing "catch-up." Kelsey and Crissy once rode a lot together because they were evenly spaced, even though Crissy was a lot heavier.  
 
I had not seen Crissy in a few years, and, from her weight gain, I got the feeling she had been off the bike for quite a while. Crissy was there with Larry Porter, her skinny boyfriend of close to ten years. Physically, they always looked like the proverbial odd couple to me--skinny, super-fit Larry, and obese Crissy. For much of the evening, they sat on one of the sofas on the porch, laughing it up with everyone else. If you did not know them, I thought, you would be hard-pressed to think they were an item.
 
To be continued