Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 3

'Stanley, Stanley, here is my answer true.

I can't cycle, or I'll get black and blue.

It won't be a pleasant ending, With all my bones a' mending, 'Cuz I'll get pitched and land in the ditch, on a bicycle built for two.'

That little ditty-my personalized version-played in my head like an annoying sing-along song from a Broadway musical you can't stop humming. (Last week I couldn't get the 'he had it coming' song from Chicago out of my head.) I'd made arrangements to meet Drew Van Vleet on the courthouse grounds at four P.M. sharp. Neutral territory. Plus, I didn't want to drive the eight miles to New Holland on my dime.

I spotted Van Vleet near the big cedar bandstand that's a magnet for graffiti. I've lost track of how many paint jobs the structure has had over the years.

"You're late," Van Vleet barked.

"Saw-ree. I didn't know I was on a time clock. I'll try to be more punctual in future," I said.

"See that you do, Witchiepoo."

"So, Drew, how are things in New Holland? Break into any residences lately? Violate anyone's privacy?" I inquired, a reference to Drew Van Vleet's abrasive, intrusive, borderline-criminal style of journalism. "That turned out so well for you the last time."

"Whoa. Idle back on the pa.s.sive aggressive hostility, would you? Surely you can't still have that warty nose out of joint over my little Halloween spread," he said.

Van Vleet's Halloween devilry had unleashed a not-so-nostalgic blast from the past-and kick-started a reputation I'd struggled to distance myself from.

Hmm. Warty nose out of joint? Let's just say if I possessed the powers of witchcraft, Mr. Van Vleet would be resting on a lily pad on a quaint little farm pond somewhere going "Ribb-it, Ribb-it" and trying to catch flies with his gi-normous tongue. Thhwop!

"Drew. Please. How could I be so petty? You know, especially considering how humiliating it must have been for you to be scooped so thoroughly by the compet.i.tion, and with me getting all those accolades-" I hesitated for effect. "Well, I figure, under the circ.u.mstances and all, it would be mean-spirited of me to, well, hold a grudge."

Van Vleet's jaw tightened. I could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. Sometimes I wonder how many guys I've known had to seek dental reconstruction due to chronic and long-term teeth grinding.

"That's awfully big of you," Van Vleet said.

I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a sensitive, caring kind of gal-as well as a consummate professional."

"Oh, G.o.d, I need to sit down." Van Vleet said, dropping onto a nearby park bench. "I take it you've heard about this fiasco they're sending us on."

"What? You couldn't tell by my cheery disposition?"

"Hey, blondie. I don't like the idea any better than you. But after you screwed me over on that Courtney-Howard story, I've got to go along to get along. So if that means I have to bike across Iowa with a ditzy blonde Barbara WaWa wannabe who stumbles onto stiffs on a semi-regular basis, I say, bring it on."

"Bring it on?" I made a sourpuss face. Bring it on? Drew Van Vleet made it sound like he was about to embark on some super-sensitive, ultra-perilous undertaking. "Uh, dude, we're not parachuting into a secret compound in Pakistan in the middle of the night or partic.i.p.ating in a high-risk, overseas mission imbedded with a deployed military unit. It's a bike ride across Iowa. Hardly what you could cla.s.sify as hazardous duty."

"That remains to be seen...Calamity," he said with one of those smirks you itch to obliterate with a well-placed jab. Or two. "You've got a history that would make a mercenary think twice about signing on."

I crossed my arms. "Why, Drew. It sounds like you have reservations. Maybe you should reconsider taking this a.s.signment."

Van Vleet shook his head. "No way, Toots. I've got to redeem myself with my employer. Thanks to you, I have the credibility of..." He paused for a second. "Well...you!" He finished with a what-can-I-say lift of shoulders.

His insult landed a glancing blow to my ego. Fortunately for Van Vleet, my recent string of journalistic coups had made me less sensitive on the subject of past job performances.

"At least your boss was scoop-savvy enough to organize your little ride along with me. It seems the fact that I have a nose for news hasn't gone unnoticed by the publisher of the New Holland News," I said.

Van Vleet made a noisy-and insultingly prolonged-raspberry sound.

"Nose for news? Right. I hate to burst your self-delusional bubble, but it wasn't my boss who planned this road trip from h.e.l.l. It was yours."

I blinked.

"What? Wait a minute. What are you talking about?"

"It was Stan Rodgers' idea. He approached my boss with an olive branch-along with, I understand, a bit of a wager."

I frowned. "Wager?"

"On who will land the best story of the week," he said. The News or the Gazette. I understand there's also a little side bet on who c.r.a.ps out first. I've got to tell you, Turner. So far, those odds are way in my favor."

Odds? Wagers? Bets! Olive branch my soon-to-be sore a.s.s.

"Of all the slimy, underhanded, unethical-"

"So, how much experience have you had on a tandem?" Van Vleet cut me off in mid-tirade.

My expression must've betrayed my inexperience.

"You have ridden a tandem before, right?" he added.

I tried to wipe my face clear of emotion-unsuccessfully, apparently, as Van Vleet's forehead suddenly had enough deep furrows to plant a respectable crop.

"You've ridden a bicycle before," Van Vleet asked.

I snorted. "Of course I've ridden a bicycle."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "Ookay. When was the last time you were on a bicycle?" he pressed.

"I live in the country. Gravel roads. Washboard surfaces. Not exactly your ideal bike trails." I responded. I chewed my lip. How long had it been since I rode a bike? Let's see. It had to be when we lived in town before we moved to the country. I was around seven then. I grimaced. Good G.o.d. I hadn't ridden a bicycle in...seventeen years!

My non-existent poker face betrayed me. Again.

"Oh, G.o.d. How long has it been, Turner?"

I looked down at my hands. "I think I was about...uh...seven-years-old the last time I rode a bike," I mumbled.

"Seven-years-old! You haven't been on a bicycle since you were seven! Holy s.h.i.t!" Van Vleet exclaimed.

"Okay. So, what part of 'I live in the country' did you miss? Forgive me if I prefer a four-legged horse to a two-wheeled velocipede," I said.

"h.e.l.l. We'd better get together ASAP to practice," Van Vleet said. "I don't want to look like an idiot in front of Keelie Keller and company."

I sat up in my chair. "Keelie Keller? Reality star bimbo of the moment? Uh, Drew, sorry to burst your bubble, scoop, but like ten thousand plus people ride in TribRide. How do you figure you're gonna get close enough to Keelie Keller and entourage for her to notice you and your dubious tandem talent?"

"Leave that to me, Blondie. First things first. Practice makes perfect. We won't have a prayer out there if you aren't up to the task. Meet me below the dam on the spillway side at 7 sharp tomorrow morning. They have a decent bike path there. Lots of hills to challenge us."

"Hills?" I gulped. "I think we'd better start out with something a little more...beginner-friendly," I suggested. "You know. Fewer turns. Less of a grade."

Van Vleet looked at me and shook his head.

"Have it your way. Shady Rest Cemetery. Seven A.M."

"Shady Rest...Cemetery?" I swallowed.

"Little traffic. Even fewer witnesses." He grinned. "Dress appropriately. And come prepared for a very long workout."

"But it's gonna be like a hundred degrees tomorrow!" I could detect a nasally whine in my voice.

"Geez, Turner. It's starting to sound like you're the one who should bow out gracefully. Or should I say, gratefully?" Van Vleet observed, an amused look spreading across his face. "I get it. You're not up to the task. No shame in backing out. No shame at all."

Great. Just what I needed. A game of chicken on a tandem.

"I'll be there. With pedal pushers on," I said, with a lift of one brow.

"Oh, and one more thing, Blondie," Van Vleet added as I turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"No boots allowed."

I supposed that went for spurs, too.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A cemetery was no place to experiment with tandem cycling, (Okay, so I didn't want to tempt fate.) and I had arranged to meet Drew Van Vleet at the county park instead. The park has a nice, wide paved road that winds its way around a modest-sized pond. The baseball and softball fields are located at the top of a long hill. Since Craig was a star pitcher on the high school team, and I was an okay softball third baseman, we'd spent a lot of time at the park. Plus they have all kinds of cool playground equipment, a couple of covered bridges, and a totally cool pioneer village that includes a little white church, a little red schoolhouse, a stagecoach inn, and a used-to-be train station.

Rather than watch Craig save the day-or I guess in his case, the game-I'd spend my time nosing around the historic village, seeing how high I could go on the swings, or pestering the temperamental geese that inhabited the park. Hold on. Don't go PETA-cidal on me here, folks. The goose-baiting was strictly payback from being psychologically scarred as a child from the renegade band of felonious fowl who found extraordinary delight in chasing me around the park and pecking at my backside. They gave as good as they got. Honest.

Thankfully, it was a weekday. The campgrounds wouldn't be quite so busy, and the ball fields wouldn't start seeing ball players until later in the day.

He'd get our transportation to the park, Van Vleet said. I wasn't sure how he planned to accomplish this. I chewed my lip. Could a person ride a tandem alone? Possible, I supposed. Advisable? Uh, not so much.

I had my answer almost immediately when a black pickup swung into the gravel lot where I was parked and working my way through a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich paired with a Diet c.o.ke. A pickup pulled alongside me. When I spotted the bright red tandem in the truck bed, my breakfast quickly lost its appeal.

"Well, well, well. What do you know? She actually showed," Van Vleet said from the cab, yanking his sungla.s.ses off, his eyes narrow slits of amus.e.m.e.nt. "I'd have taken bets you wouldn't be here, Turner. I have to hand it to you. Your capacity for self-abas.e.m.e.nt is impressive."

Translation: I was a glutton for punishment.

Seriously? Like I haven't heard that before.

"What took you so long?" I asked. "For a minute there I was ready to send out a posse to hunt you down, pilgrim."

"Yeah, right," Van Vleet said, shaking his head. "Calamity Jayne and the Grandville Geriatric gang in hot pursuit." He put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "The visuals that brings to mind."

I watched Van Vleet pull the endgate down and haul himself up into the back of his truck. He maneuvered the elongated bike towards the tailgate.

"A little a.s.sistance, if you don't mind," he said, and I stuffed the last of my breakfast in my mouth before moving to the back of the truck.

"Uh, who picked the color?" I asked, and helped lower the heavier than expected fire truck red bike to the ground. "Red really doesn't do much for me."

"Beats me." Van Vleet jumped down from the bed of the truck. "They probably borrowed the bike. This isn't what you'd call a heavily financed operation, in case you thought otherwise."

"But does it have to be red?" The bike I'd performed the triple double on had been red, too. Not exactly an encouraging omen.

"Who cares what color it is? I'm more concerned with how well it rides."

Oh. Yeah. There was that.

"Has the bike been checked out?" I asked. "You know. By a certified bike shop? Someone who knows what they're doing?"

He shrugged. "Guess we'll soon find out, won't we?"

Nice.

"You did bring a bike helmet."

"Of course." Actually, I'd lifted Taylor's helmet from a shelf in the folks' garage. I figured. Why spend money I didn't have for something she wouldn't miss and I'd likely never want to lay eyes on ever again?

I wrinkled my nose and picked the black helmet up and set it on my head. Leave it to Taylor to pick a boring color. I could hear it now: What's black and white and red all over? Tressa Turner on TribRide.

I fumbled with the straps, having difficulty getting the blasted thing fastened.

"Uh, Einstein. You have your helmet on backwards," Van Vleet pointed out.

I rotated the helmet, cinched the straps, and leveled an annoyed look at my pedaling partner.

"So, what makes you such an expert? You don't seem like the bike type to me."

Van Vleet fiddled with the bicycle.

"I ride," he said.

Was I imagining it-or had he lost a bit of his swagger?

He fastened his own bike helmet on his head-a shiny silver number-took hold of the bike's handlebars and swung a leg over the bike, settling his bike-shorts-clad f.a.n.n.y on the front seat of the bike.

"Climb on, Calamity." Van Vleet nodded towards the seat behind him. "Let's see what you can do."