Sweating like a pig, thank you; and yourself?

Sunday 22 February 2009

For a while after he was married Daddy used to ride a bicycle, a really nice Italian racing bike, pretty much everywhere. Using all sorts of 'excuses' to ride, like marathons and fundraisers, he crossed the state a few times on it, going both ways, and rode up into New York State and as far south as Chincoteague, just above where we live now. Then we moved to southern Delaware, and he continued to ride till Jessy was walking, or learning how to ride a bicycle herself, and by the time Mommy got sick he had stopped for some reason. Recently he has been interested in riding again, and down in the basement here at Terncote he has been using the rowing machine.

I sort of accepted a dare from Jessy to wear my new bikini for certain softball practices. The team jerseys are red with white polkadots and so is the swimsuit. And I'm totally willing to do it, because I think the little girls will think it's very cool of their coach and just because it would seem cute anyway. The one thing that would NOT be cute about it is if I did it looking as I do now... so... it is down stairs to the rowing machine with Daddy for me.

The machine has a computer on it that tells you what your time and speed would be in a standard 2-km race. A good speed for someone who does not compete too seriously would be under 9 minutes. Right now I am rowing about 9:50, which is deplorable. Daddy rows about 9:20 and he's fifty years old. Jessy came down, observed our times, and then said, 'Well, there's more to being a pretty girl than rowing fast.'

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and looked up at her as the rotor spun down. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

Girlishly she shrugged. 'I guess I'm saying you can get away with not being too athletic if you're pretty.'

I stared at her. She was totally serious. You would never expect it but Jessy is much more conservative than I am when it comes to gender relations. I actually believe she would be content to marry someone a little older and a lot richer who would happily support her while she bakes brownies and does aerobics to stay slim and then greets her husband at the door with no clothes on when he comes home. When you're as pretty as she is, why break a sweat?

I should say that Jessy is by no means UN-athletic-- she swims very well (and fast), she used to race karts in England, she is a good surfer and an excellent ballerina and can run almost endlessly without having to breathe through her mouth. She was also really good at football (soccer) and rounders.

I looked at her and realised she was serious... or at least trying to dare me. 'Grrrrrrrgh!' I growled, and reached for the bar and gave it a long hard pull. I cranked that stupid machine right back up to about 2:20 per 500 and concentrated on not breaking form. I did not watch Jessy but out the corner of my eye I saw her wander over and sit down on Mother's stationary bike. But she didn't ride it.

(Did I mention that The Princess was in panties? --cute ones, too, silver-and-white, satin-finish, low-rise bikini... the kind of thing only a true underwear princess would ever wear... and no, she wasn't wearing anything else because, after all, she doesn't need to.)

I pulled the full extra 500 metres at 2:27. Not bad. At last I sat back on the thing, letting go the bar and listening to the rotor spin down again. Daddy came back in then, seeing us like that, Jessy perched prettily on the completely stationary stationary bike and me bent over backwards boiling in sweat. 'Two-twenty-seven? That's good.'

'My two-k sucked,' I groaned over myself.

'At two-twenty-seven, you did a nine-oh-eight.'

'I did a nine-fifty-something!'

'Really? Okay... well... that sucks.'

Jessy laughed. 'Grrrrrrrgh!' I complained.

He leaned over and poked me gently in the bare belly. I sprang up as a reflex. 'All right,' he said. 'Go easier tomorrow, shoot for ten, and get yourself four times that beat it during the week.'

I looked at him. 'I'm not raising my target time because I suck,' I said.

'Yes, you are. That's exactly what you're doing. You're being realistic. Look, from how you're panting right now, you got a good workout. What do we care what your time is?'

I thought about that. 'I wanted to break nine,' I said.

'Why?' he asked me.

I thought. 'Because that's what I used to row, in--'

'In your old school? A year and a half ago?'

I had to think about that too. 'Yeah,' I finally said.

Jessy wagged a finger at me from behind Daddy. Daddy didn't see her. 'You're living in denial,' he told me. 'Deal with the reality and stop trying to kill yourself. You row twice a day, four days a week on that thing, you'll be gorgeous by Memorial Day.'

I made a sad face. 'I thought I was gorgeous now,' I said, pretending to be offended.

'I was trying to tell her she already is,' Jessy said.

Daddy looked at her for a moment and then back at me. 'She is,' he said. 'You are. I mean, you'll be running marathons. You handle four workouts a week on that thing, twenty minutes plus warm-ups and cool-downs, getting your time down each time... my God. You'll run rings around a marathon.'

I nodded. 'I know.'

He held up a finger at me. 'You're done today. Stretch it out, have a shower. Your mother is making supper.'

I nodded. 'Yes, Daddy.' He left. I looked at Jessy then. 'Why does he think I want to run marathons?'

She shrugged, looking pretty. 'I think he just wants you to feel healthy. And to like yourself more.'

'Whoever said I didn't like myself?'

She shrugged again. 'Personally I think you ask too much of yourself.'

I pinched my side. 'See this? This, right here? THIS is too much of myself.'

Jessy laughed. 'This is what you get for buying the polkadot bikini before you can fit into it yet.'

'Stop it,' I said.

She only laughed again. I reached down and pulled the bar back to start another 500... with vengeance.

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