Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 4

I frowned. "Hold on. Who says you get the front seat?"

"My guardian angel. That's who. You haven't ridden a bicycle since you were in grade school. No way am I going to trust the driver's seat to someone who has the nickname you do-and the history to justify it."

"I see. So you get the view of the wide-open road and I get what? The view of your wide, open posterior all the way across the state? No way."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. As soon as I'm convinced I won't end up as someone's hood ornament, we'll talk about taking turns. Until then, get used to the back seat, backside view. Now would you get on the d.a.m.ned bike?"

I was about to protest more but realized he was probably right. I wasn't ready to take the helm yet. I'd need some time in the saddle. But once I was up to speed? Well, this little cowgirl wasn't about to take a back seat to anyone.

I grabbed the handlebars behind Van Vleet's seat and started to swing a leg over the bicycle's bar when the bike wobbled precariously to one side.

"Whoa! Hold your horses, Calamity! A little finesse, if you please!" Van Vleet scolded. "This is a bike, not a steed. You don't gallop up and throw yourself on a tandem like some half-a.s.sed ramrod or we'll tip over!" He repositioned the bike and planted a foot on either side of the bicycle to balance it. "Position yourself thus," he instructed.

"Thus?" I made a face. "Thus?"

"Just do it!" Van Vleet barked.

"Okay! Okay! I'll position myself thus." I a.s.sumed the position. "There. Happy?" I said to the rigid back in front of me.

Van Vleet turned in his seat.

"Do I look happy?"

"Did you spend any time at all researching the technique of riding tandem?" he asked. "You know. In between s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up obits and dispensing candy sprinkles on soft serve?"

"I didn't think it was compulsory to Google riding a bicycle," I responded.

Van Vleet shook his head. "I thought as much. Okay. Lesson one. Definition of terms."

Terms?

"Term One: Captain. The captain is the front seat rider and the bike boss, the rider in control, if you will. The captain controls breaking, steering, and shifting gears." He jabbed a thumb into his chest. "That's me. I am the captain."

I blinked. Was this guy for real? I struck a salute pose.

"Aye, aye, Captain! Permission to speak, sir!"

Van Vleet did one of those eye roll numbers. "Do I have a choice?"

"Sir! No, sir!"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake. What is it?"

"Why do you get to be the bike boss again?"

"Uh, firstly because I actually know what I'm doing and secondly because I don't want to die. Now, may I please proceed?"

I sighed. "If you must."

"Term Number Two: Stroker."

"Stroker?" I frowned, already prepared to be insulted.

Van Vleet nodded. "Stroker. Also known as the motor. You, Miss Motormouth, are the stroker."

"I'm the motor. Me?"

"Technically, you're the stroker."

"And technically you are...an a.s.s," I said.

"Would you get serious?"

I stared at him. "I've just been a.s.signed stroker duties and you want me to get serious. Dude. That's whacked."

"Turner-"

"Do we have to use the term stroker? That just sounds...wrong."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, call yourself whatever the h.e.l.l you want," Van Vleet snapped.

"Xena, Biker Princess," I proclaimed.

"Funny. The point is you provide the propulsion."

I looked at him.

"You expect me to provide the pedal power for both of us?"

His glance shifted to the area of my body that falls between the pelvis and the knees. "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?"

"Listen. These thighs were sculpted from years of horse hugging, roping, riding, and rodeo-ing, buddy. That doesn't mean they are pedal-power approved," I said. What can I say? I have cowgirl thighs.

"No matter. Those thunder thighs will have to do, and you'll have to get used to second seat spinning," Van Vleet told me. "Now, for the correct mounting procedure."

"Mounting procedure? First, 'stroking' and now 'mounting.' You aren't getting fresh, are you, Van Vleet?" I snorted.

"In your dreams, TT."

"TT? Oh. As in Tressa Turner."

"No. As in thunder thighs."

I let the dig go. Never fear. I'd have a week to come up with appropriate names for my pedaling partner. As well as for my employer...

"Now," Van Vleet went on. "I've got the brake engaged so the bike won't roll. The stroker positions the pedal in the lowest position to use as a step. Go ahead and do it."

I complied.

"Now mount the bicycle. Try to center your balance as much as possible. Okay. Now, clip your feet and tie off the straps."

I fumbled a bit, but managed to do as he instructed.

"Next you're going to rotate the pedals to a good starting position for me," Van Vleet said. "Okay. A little more. There. That should do. Right. We should be ready to go. Remember. We've got to get the bike going quickly so we don't tip over. And it's important that we match our cadence. You do know what that means, right?"

"Oh, shucks, Cap'n. All us strokers know what cadence is," I guffawed.

"Since you're the weakest link, you determine how fast or slow the cadence is," Van Vleet went on. "I'll take my cue from you."

"How do you figure I'm the weakest link?" I objected. "I could turn out to be a tandem rock star."

"Prove it, Witchiepoo," Van Vleet said.

"Let's roll," I said with more confidence than I felt "Okay. I'm going to push off. Ready. And go!"

The tandem shot forward.

"Pedal! Set the cadence!" Van Vleet yelled.

I bent over the handlebars, trying to remember to maintain a centered balance, stepping into the raised pedal with one foot, then the other.

"Faster! Faster!" Van Vleet yelled, and I kicked it up a notch.

"Too slow! Too slow!" Van Vleet's hollered warning came as my right foot somehow managed to come loose from the tie securing it to the pedal. I tried to recover my foothold, and leaned slightly to my left.

"Pedal! Pedal!" Van Vleet yelled.

"I'm trying! I'm trying!" I yelled back.

Every time I thought I'd gained a foothold, the speed of the pedals changed and my foot flailed in mid-air.

"Try harder! I can't do it alone! You're like dead weight back there!"

I felt my balanced center begin to wobble. My one remaining anchor flew off the pedal and both legs shot out in opposite directions.

Look Ma! No feet!

The bicycle began to tip.

"Timber!" I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut to block out the sight of the roadside ditch looming closer and closer.

My prayer during that split-second descent? Dear Lord, protect the teeth. Amen.

Four hours later I had a new appreciation for individuals so committed to the pursuit of health and fitness that they balanced themselves on a seat no bigger than a generous slice of pie and traversed the highways and byways by virtue of leg power-and willpower-alone.

My backside felt like someone had used a hot poker on it. Okay. In it.

That wasn't all.

My thighs hurt. My calves hurt. Even my feet hurt, my toes cramping and curling up like talons clutching prey from being strapped to the d.a.m.ned pedals for so long. I limped to a picnic table and dropped onto the seat, gasping as my b.u.t.tocks. .h.i.t the hard wood.

"You don't look so good," Van Vleet observed. "Maybe you better bow out. There's no shame in throwing in the towel. Really. I can do the bike ride solo. Swap this bike out for a one seat number."

I rubbed a thigh muscle. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Drew? I quit. You win whatever idiotic wager is going on, and secure bragging rights into infinity and beyond." I shook my head. "Not a chance. I'm in it 'til the bitter end. Back aches, blisters, bad att.i.tudes, and all."

I may be many things-but, a quitter? Not in my DNA, dude.

Van Vleet secured the bicycle in his truck bed and shut the endgate. "See you at six."

"Six?"

"Our next practice. And this time? Wear bike shorts. We can't keep stopping so you can pull your panties out of your b.u.t.t crack."

I winced.

I'm gonna need a bigger bike seat.

CHAPTER FIVE.

"Water! I need water!"

I dropped into a booth at Hazel's Hometown Cafe, garnering a startled look from the other patrons and a "what now?" look from chief cook and bottle washer, Donita Smith. Technically, "Hazel" has been retired for over a decade, but her family continues to run the iconic eatery. At any given time, farmers, retirees, business folk, and busybodies congregate to enjoy a heapin' helping of hometown cooking guaranteed to have you letting out your belt a notch or wishing you'd donned stretchy pants for the occasion.

Donnie set a gla.s.s of ice water on the table in front of me. I picked it up, drained it.

"A pitcher! I need a pitcher!" I placed the cold plastic to my forehead. "STAT!" I bellowed when Donnie didn't move quickly enough. I received a "what did I do to deserve this?" look before she headed back to the counter. By the time she returned with a pitcher of water, I'd chewed half the ice and was ready to dump the other half down the front of my shirt.

Donita filled my gla.s.s. I drained it. She poured me another. I downed it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're a G.o.dsend, Donnie!" I managed between swallows.

"I don't know whether to call you Tressa or 'camel.' You filling up for a trek across the Sahara?" Donnie asked.

I wished. A caravan across burning sands would probably be more bearable.

"What on earth has you so hot and bothered?" Donnie asked. "Don't tell me you're on the trail of another dead guy."

"Maybe the dead guy is on her tail for once. Aren't zombies all the rage these days?" Joltin' Joe Townsend slid into the booth across from me. He picked up a menu. "What are you having?"