Pinky's Fake

Pinky’s Fake

We have ridden almost 100 miles and are nearing the end of our first day of the Seattle to Portland Classic bicycle ride. Marie started this. It is fitting that she and John pull us the rest of the way to our bed and breakfast in Chehalis having dragged us from Seattle drafting behind their tandem bike for the last 7 hours. I love tandems. We are cruising along at 22 mph. We have hit a long stretch of smooth recently laid pavement and John has accelerated. I am hanging on a foot from that rear tire like Gorilla Glue, and Pinky behind me. A rider pulls along side us on his Trek with its paired bladed spokes, carbon fiber rims, and aerobars, decked out in his Italian lycra, matching shoes, and sunglasses worth more than my Nikon camera. He is a hot shot, a cowboy showing off. I nod “Hello.”
He doesn’t respond. He leads out from us smartly with a flourish. He stops accelerating as soon as he is in front. He is there for only a few seconds. He lets loose for a better hold, and finds himself next to me again, behind the tandem. He is racing with us. He must think that he is in the tour or something. Somebody should tell him that those guys actually talk to each other all the time even to guys on the other teams. He is slowly slipping backward, and he has become a little grim and desparate. On the tandem, John does not even notice. He is totally unaware as the mystery show-boater has cracks like a filbert and has struggled to hook on behind us drafting behind Pinky. Being a slave to fashion myself, I am sensitive to the fancy pants guys. I have to smile. Then I feel guilty cruising so comfortably behind John and Marie. I love that tandem. We just settle into the new rhythm and we approach a Y in the road, new pavement angling right and left.
“Wait a minute, we have to turn” Pinky says anxiously behind me. There were green STP marks on the road “go straight”, but it was a little hard to tell which arm of the Y was straight ahead. Four or five riders had gone of to the right and were about a quarter mile up a slight grade and still going, but far ahead the mainstream headed left and so John on the tandem. He can’t turn. It is clear that momentum and long wheel base of the tandem prevent a quick turn. As my bike touches the directional arrow painted on the pavement, Pinky signals a right turn. Not wanting to leave the group, she but actually make the turn.
“Pinky says we missed the turn,” I pass it on to John and Marie on the tandem.
“Should we go back,” Marie asks John. (The wives work together in these matters.)
“I think we are okay,” John replies.
“I saw a green mark,” shouts Pinky so we can all hear. She is certain that we have made a wrong turn.
John keeps cranking right along at 22 mph.
“We’ll keep an eye out for another marker,” Marie shouts.
“Okay. But how long should we go?” Pinky says. Only I can hear this. I know that she wants to turn around. We whiz over another green marker directing us straight ahead.
“Oh, no!” Pinky calls out talking to us all again. We are on the right course.
We all stop pedaling.
“No, no. I’m okay. I was so sure. I signaled,” she said.
Nobody understands. We are just waiting for her to continue.
“Just as you hit the first green mark before that Y, I signaled for a right turn, and he turned. That guy in the fancy suit that hooked on behind us just shot off like a rocket into that group climbing the hill to who knows where.”
We are just coasting, laughing too hard to pedal.
“Pinky. What timing on the arrogant cowboy. John cracked him like a nut without even noticing that the guy was trying to race us. Now he is on his way to “lost lake”, not yet knowing for sure that he should flip a U until he catches those other four bikes. Just one little perfectly timed flick of your right index finger and you cut him loose.”
“I feel terrible. Do we have enough water to skip the next rest stop?” Pinky asks. “I don’t want to be there when he comes in.”