Redside Ride

By Abe Margel

‘Redside Ride,’ a charity bike race, was to take place in the unspoiled countryside an hour’s drive north of Toronto. Mike had been volunteered by his sister to drive her son, Rory, and his costly bicycle to the start line. She and her husband were going to be out of town attending a wedding that weekend.

Mike recalled the sense of freedom his first two-wheeler gave him. He was six at the time. He couldn’t quite understand though why his nephew, Rory, would be fascinated by competitive cycling. 

“Why doesn’t your son take up another sport, like tennis or pickup hockey?” he asked Rory’s father. “Why bust your butt racing down streets in the cold and the rain jammed with dangerous traffic or on rutted dirt roads?” 

The answer was a shrug.

 Rory was a tall sinewy man of twenty-seven. He exuded vitality and was good-looking in a boyish way. His passion for cycling fluctuated between the simple pleasures of sharing the outdoors with friends and his desire to be crowned champion. Even an obscure contest held the possibility of attaining a degree of glory.

Mike was divorced. His two daughters were grown and living their own lives. One resided in Copenhagen with her boyfriend while the other was married with two small kids and lived in Thunder Bay.

Once a week, like clockwork, Mike and his two daughters would have a Zoom chat, everything numbingly pleasant, almost scripted. There was only a thread connecting him to his daughters but it was a thread he was reluctant to cut. He invariably sat there smiling for twenty awkward minutes, a coffee mug containing a little whisky and ice water within easy reach. Vala, his dog would jump up on his lap, gaze at the computer screen for a moment, bark once then jump down. Mike’s former wife, the girls’ mother, was never mentioned.  

Rory was not his kid but he’d seen him grow up, mature, do well. Without a son of his own, Mike quietly felt pride and joy at his nephew’s successes. He was fond enough of his sister and her son to now find himself slathered in sunscreen in the August heat at the side of a country road. This is where the race was to begin. He’d parked in the patchy shade of a tall maple across from a fire engine. There he’d made himself comfortable in a folding lawn chair. The large red truck was part of some display of old firefighting equipment inexplicably spread out at the side of 7th Concession Road in King City. Despite its name there was no city, no urban landscape at all but rather rolling fields of soybeans, corn and barley.  

Mike had gotten up on a Saturday at four-thirty in the morning, driven over to Rory’s apartment and then drove him, his twelve thousand dollar Trek Madone bike and Vala the dog north. The beagle was happy to see Rory, its tail wagging, its posture relaxed. As a rule Vala was uncomfortable around strangers, neighbours, relatives, and teenagers of any size or shape.

Getting up at 4:30 a.m. to attend a cycling event seemed a little crazy to Mike but here he was.

“You get up before sunrise on your days off work to compete,” he said to Rory while driving to this event, “and what does it get you? The prize doesn’t seem worth the effort. Remember when you were little and I coached your baseball team for three seasons? What about getting into something like that again, maybe racquet ball? Something civilized where you don’t have to get up before daybreak. Why bicycle racing?”

“It’s the camaraderie and the thrill of overcoming obstacles, real obstacles,” Rory said. “If you’re riding at dawn in the country there’s the taste of the dew, the smell of the earth and crops as they wake up. And in this case the ride’s for charity, a chance to give back to the community.” He nodded. “That’s why I race, that’s why we all race or at least I think that’s why I and my friends race. 

“Of course for some people it’s all about winning. Winning, beating everyone else to the finish line. Please don’t get me wrong, I love to win but it’s not mostly about that.”

“Okay,” Mike said, still mystified. 

A hollow laugh came from between Rory’s thin lips. “Well sometimes getting on the podium is the appeal even for my crowd. The last couple of races my friend Darryl’s been pushing himself to be first over the finish line. He’s trying to impress his girlfriend.” 

“How many of your friends do you expect will take part today?”

“If everyone shows up there should be seven of us. Two women and five guys. I know them from the gym, all except Darryl. I’ve known him since grade three. It was my idea he join the gym and we both ended up getting into bicycle racing when we met some guys working out.”

This race was an event to raise money to save a rare fish, the three inch Redside dace. The little animal had a red stripe along the front half of its body and a bright yellow stripe above that almost reached the tail fin. It lived in the tributaries flowing into Lake Huron and Lake Erie. 

Rory shrugged, “We’re here to raise money to save an ecosystem from obliteration. One of the women at our gym works for the Department of Fisheries.” He became animated, raised his voice, gestured with his hands. “The province doesn’t do enough to protect endangered species. So it’s more than just a bunch of guys sweating their guts out on a hot summer’s day. I’ve got nearly nine hundred dollars backing my ride today. That’s a record for me.”

“So you’re part of a philanthropic team?”

“Calling the guys I ride with a team would be an exaggeration. There’s no manager, mechanics or coaches. It’s just a hobby.”

“Alright, good for you.” 

Mike had packed a lunch for himself, baloney sandwiches, tortilla chips and two large thermoses. One thermos held black coffee, the other a Manhattan. He made his Manhattans without the bitters or cherries, just whisky, vermouth and ice. 

“Life can be bitter enough,” he’d tell anyone who asked. His drink was now mostly vermouth, not like when he was younger. But at fifty-six, carrying twenty pounds he didn’t need and having high blood pressure, he’d been forced to make compromises. 

A crowd was assembling, bike riders, onlookers, officials and one lone cop.  The policeman directed traffic, pointing to those involved in the race to pull over to an area along the road next to a farmer’s field. An ice cream truck appeared. Its owner was immediately rewarded when people lined up in the morning dew to buy his treats. The first in line were two middle-aged men wearing St. John Ambulance uniforms consisting of green short-sleeved shirts and black pants. These first aid volunteers’ tops had the words, St. John Ambulance in large white letters on them. 

Rory was tinkering with his bike’s gears. “These new Shimano Dura-Ace R9100 were expensive but they’re great, worth every penny,” he said. 

Mike gave a grunt to indicate he was paying attention. He knew most of those pennies came from his dentist brother-in-law as did the rent for Rory’s apartment and God knows what else. Rory spent more than he earned but that was between him and his parents.

A green Dodge Durango SUV pulled up and out stepped a middle-aged couple, wiry and deeply tanned. They were decked out in matching emerald bike shorts, t-shirts and helmets. 

Mike gave Rory a nudge. “What’s with them?”

“The Nolans, they’re actually serious athletes. I’ve seen them around.” A frown crept over his handsome face. “You need to keep an eye out for the woman, Glenda. She’s not above sticking out an elbow when you’re trying to pass her.” He gave a subdued chuckle.

The policeman directed an Acura SUV to park next to Mike’s Tahoe and a woman and young man exited. The two appeared to be mother and son, the woman in her late forties, the man early twenties. Both seemed energetic, keen to get on with their day.   

The young man carefully removed his bicycle from the hitch bike rack attached to the rear of the vehicle. He waved. 

“Hi,” Rory said in reply and went back to adjusting his bicycle.

The woman gave Mike a long look. She apparently liked what she saw and drifted over to him. She was dressed in a pair of black slacks, a blue top and loafers. She took a few steps toward Mike’s Tahoe. 

“Hot, isn’t it,” she said to him, “and it’s not even seven.” 

“Yeah, it’ll be a scorcher.” He liked her vanilla perfume, her gentle voice, and her spontaneous smile. He was surprised she spoke to him at all. Women didn’t usually do that. He was tall, had a bit of a paunch, wore glasses and had a receding hairline. Not the kind of specimen, he knew, that usually appealed to women. He stood up.

“I’m Chloe,” she said as she extended her hand to him.

“Hi Chloe. My name’s Mike,” he said blushing. 

“I see you’re with Rory. My son Jason is part of the same group from the gym.”

“Yeah, Rory’s my nephew.” He glanced in his direction and saw Rory colour. “My sister asked me to drive him. He’s a good kid.”

More people showed up at the starting line. At seven o’clock sharp a blast from an air horn put all the riders in motion. Dozens of men and women began the one hundred kilometer circuit. 

Once the clamour had died away, Vala stopped weaving among the remaining people, stopped sniffing at every tire and toe. The dog settled in the shade of an ancient oak, one of the few large trees in the area. Mike put out a dish of water and another of kibble for her. The sun rose higher, flaming yellow. A soft humid breeze passed over the fields and the air was filled with the scent of crops and soil. Mike began to take out his cell phone from his pocket but stopped and shoved it back in. I’m in the middle of the country, fresh air, no traffic, peace and quiet – why ruin it by staring at a mind-numbing time thief?

He stretched out on his lawn chair, pulled the brim of the large floppy hat he was wearing down to his nose and closed his eyes. Breathe, he told himself, breathe and unwind. Soon he found himself falling asleep, drifting off to a Shangri-la of beautiful lakes, fine food and lovely women. He felt content. The dreams he normally had placed him knee-deep in some bog, being fired for showing up at work in his pajamas, or losing his wallet in a foreign country or planet. Ah, Shangri-la was nice, unfamiliar territory. Very nice.

He didn’t know how long he’d slept when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Mike, Mike,” Chloe said. “Wake up. Your dog is in the field. She’s cornered an animal next to some bushes. It looks like it might be a porcupine. You don’t want her running back to you with a face full of quills, do you?”

“Oh God.” In the process of getting up his hat fell off. He picked it up then turned right and left but couldn’t see Vala. 

“No, no,” Chloe said. She took him by the arm and led him behind the parked vehicles. Pointing, she said, “See over there. Way over there.”

“Yes, I see her. Stupid dog.” Still half asleep he began to run in Vala’s direction. Chloe was right beside him. 

Barking in the distance suggested to Mike that Vala was having a good time. But Mike was not. The field of soybeans was furrowed and the two would-be dog rescuers found the going tough. Mike sat down in the middle of the crop and removed both his shoes.

“I’ve got to get all this dirt out,” he said, shaking his sneakers. Chloe attempted to do the same while standing up. Soon they were back trying to save the mischievous canine.  

“Jesus Christ,” Mike said winded, “it really is a porcupine.” But Chloe didn’t hear him. She was far ahead of him. When he caught up, he saw she had the dog by the collar and was dragging it away from its would-be prey. 

“Thank God you’re here,” Mike said. 

“Are you talking about me or the dog,” Chloe said giggling. 

“You, of course.”

Three and a half hours after the race began the lead cyclists were approaching the finish line. By this time Mike and Chloe had become the best of friends. For two hours they’d talked and shared snacks. 

She was a widow. “He liked speed, motorcycles, powerboats. One day he tried to take a sharp turn in the Laurentians with his Mustang and went over the edge. Plunged to his death, as they say. That left me to raise Jason on my own.” She worked as an electrical engineer. 

He told her of his divorce, his two grown daughters, his job as an urban planner. 

He told her about Rory. “I remember him as a toddler, how lively he was, now he’s working in the IT department of an insurance company, he has his own apartment and a girlfriend I’ve yet to meet.” He shook his head. “He’s serious like my eldest daughter in Thunder Bay. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who is more conscientious than Rory.” But he didn’t mention that when it came to balancing his budget Rory was less than reliable. 

As the cyclists came closer Chloe retrieved a pair of binoculars from her vehicle. “Oh look, they’re in the lead, the guys from the gym.” She handed the binoculars to Mike. 

“Okay, I can see them. Yes, amazing they’re ahead, but not by much.” Vala, who was now securely tied, made a stir, realized she was fettered and lay back down.   

As the racers got closer to the finish line the gym group was spreading out, each rider being further from his companion. Glenda Nolan came up behind one, passed him, then passed another, then another. Only Jason and Rory were still in front of her. 

“No, come on, Rory!” Mike yelled.

“Get moving Jason. Don’t let her pass you. No!” Chloe was jumping up and down. “Look at her elbow. She elbowed Jason. Shit. You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”

Vala was tugging at her leash, growling, barking.

 A hundred yards from the finish line Rory and Glenda were neck and neck. “Oh no,” Mike said. 

“Did you see that?” Chloe said. “Jesus, she’s down. Oh my God, I think Rory shoved her.” 

Several bicyclists collided, fell, moaned, cursed. 

“Someone, please help Glenda,” her husband yelled.

The two middle-aged first-aid volunteers ran toward the collision. Right behind them were Mike, Chloe and the cop. 

“Stop, stop,” Jason said as he tried to pull Rory off Glenda. 

Rory was on top of Glenda holding her shoulders to the ground, screaming at her, “I’ve had it with you and your cheating! Always cheating!” 

“Stop,” yelled the policeman as he and Mike and a couple of the bike riders pulled Rory to his feet and away from Glenda.

“You’re under arrest,” said the cop as he snapped handcuffs on Rory’s wrists. 

“No, no,” Mike said, “It’s just a misunderstanding. He’s a good kid.”“He’s no kid and he’s under arrest,” snarled the policeman. “Now stand back, mister, stand back.”

Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Yellow Mama, BarBar, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Freedom Fiction, Spadina Literary Review, Mystery Tribune, Ariel Chart, Uppagus, etc.