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He was the fourth person there. I arrived at nine o’clock to greet the misty day that would provide me with neutral grounds for the meeting of my nemesis. I guess I have always thought about meeting those guys that were my antithesis, the guys that I could have turned out to be, had I been a fetus in someone else’s body.
I remember my first. He and I competed every day. In class, on the soccer field, playing tetherball on the playground, everywhere. He followed me through junior high, but I attended another school for high school. We would hit each other and scream in hatred some of the most foul-mouthed things a kid could say. I would spit on his shoes when he wasn’t looking. He would throw a basketball at my head when I was flirting with 3rd grade girls. He was a better artist than I, and I was cuter than he. He was faster than I, and I was smarter than he. We both liked He-man, but he had Castle Grayskull. I guess he won.
I had always gauged myself against him and he against I. But it ended when I left to go to private school. I saw him about two summers ago, after he had been in the Marines for awhile. We were both filling up our cars at the gas station and I looked over, locking my eyes on his face. It was so bold and distinguished, so different from when I used to flick his tiny ear. I suppose I could still flick his ear and we would dash for the cashier to see who could pay first. I looked over toward him through the wavering hot air and said “Hey,” He glanced over and smiled while looking at my car and the bike attached to it. He said “Hey, nice bike.” We talked about riding and how things were going, all the typical back-and-forth. What really amazed me about the conversation was that the competition was all behind us: left in that old cellar with squeaky voices and girl cooties. In fact, I wanted to go have a beer with the guy and congratulate him for making it. I wanted him to look at me and say he was happy for me. Nothing like this was openly stated, but amidst the gasoline fumes, we understood each other. Will and Mike, He and I: grownups! Shit.
I thought all that kid stuff was behind me. Then I showed up at the race. I had never met my new challenger. I doubt he even noticed I was there. On the other hand, he was impossible to miss. He drove up in a brand new jet black Subaru Forester. His father got out of the car and assembled a canopy behind the car as a dry workstation to repair (or was it just glorify?) the brand new Moots YBB. The pinnacle, the cream of the crop, the wet dream of bicycles, the Red Rider BB gun, the drooled-upon, praise-worthy Moots. Titanium spilled out of his car as he pulled off his Race Face jacket and strapped on a fresh pair of Sidis. Opening the toolbox, he revealed the coveted Shimano teakwood chain tool, stock wrenches and a beautiful shop-quality truing stand. Setting these aside, his father opened the telescoping Park race stand and set the Moots up at a seductive angle, turning the Chris King headset label directly into my line of sight. After arranging the bicycle into a stance fit for Pamela Lee, they fled back to the comfort of leather interior. I sat on the hood of my Buick and thought to myself, Materialistic Mike; here I am. Every material possession I have ever wanted was sitting 20 feet away from me. All I had to do was pull out my tire jack and hit them from behind, making a clean getaway with everything I have ever wanted. I thought of Will. He had been reincarnated in the form of a lanky, scraggly bike racer. With all of my things.
As the race neared, I tried not to think about his 22lb. bicycle. I tried not to think of Will sitting on the swingset, lurching in and out, spitting at me in mid-air. It was too much. I kept thinking “he’s a wuss, he can not ride. He has everything but he has nothing on me. I’ll scream past him before the singletrack and hold him up for a full lap, letting the leaders get further and further ahead.”
“GO!” Shouted the race coordinator, and I was off… off my bike that is. My first expert race and I caught an elbow going into the opening turn letting my teenaged nemesis ride away, disc brakes and all. The rest of the race was miserable. Cramps, Gu stuck on my brake levers, bad shifting, mud in all orifices, brake squeal. I even lost a cleat on my Lakes.
I finished 17 minutes after he did. He was already clean when I got to the finish line. His bike was back on the rack and he had a slice of pizza in his hand. I remember walking past him and muttering, “Fuck you, Will” in the back of my mind. I just kept thinking, “I wish I had all of that gear. I wish I had a pair of Hayes, and a Marzocchi Z-2 Bam, and full XTR. I wish, I wish… I wish.” Lust, fear, loathing, contempt, anger, hatred, pain, all sorts of emotions flooded out as I allowed my legs to rid themselves of the lactic acid they so hated. Staggering back to Ruth, my faithful Buick, I listened closely as “Will” found a rag to pick up his bike so as not to get his hands dirty.
“Listen, I’ve put all of this money into your bicycle and what do you get but 6th place!? I expect a better performance out of you. You suffered on the last lap. I watched you walk that hill, I watched you screw up on that switchback!”
As my opponent muddled with the quick release on his roof rack, his dad insulted his every move.
“What, is the rack too complicated? I suppose I could beat you at that, too!”
As he fumbled with the Handi-Wipe I watched all of his childhood fears drip from his eyes and be wiped off onto the clean black sleeve of his Gore-Tex jacket. All I could see was a 10 year-old dressed in all the right gear, eating all the right foods, riding all the right trails, yet still wondering where it all went. Then, the inevitable happened. We made eye contact. Earlier, I imagined he had sensed my feelings as I had stared at him: envy and jealousy, pure material lust. This all changed. As I looked into his teary eye, I felt all those same emotions. He longed to have the freedom to blow off training for a race like I had. He longed to be at a race by himself where he had no coach to come back to. He longed for the solace I found on my bike. For him, it was pure pain to be on that bike, but a different kind of pain—he hated that bike, and I loved it.
I really thought I would trade everything I had for those shiny new components. I have a great family. My dad is proud of me. My mom loves me. I don’t get yelled at when I mess up, I get a pat on the back and a look of familiar contentedness.
The awards were given and the Subaru took off down the dirt road back to wherever. I think about the Moots. I will always think about him. I know “Will” will always think of me. I know someday, once he has broken through the confined life that is his controlling, restrictive, negative father, we may meet at some gas station and glare at each other through the ether. He might even say to me, “Hey, nice bike.”
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