So you’ve considered the upside, decided that yes, you want to find your very own Armstrong and have considered the downsides without pause. A final snapshot before you start amending your Match.com profile or hanging out at the local bike store. The reality of dating a cyclist might be that cold shower you need.
David was a cyclist of the racing variety, who resided in Boulder with no discernible source of income, a garage full of high end bikes and the body of a Greek god. What he lacked in career motivation and intelligence became irrelevant as soon as I checked out his butt on our first date.
Lord thank you Jesus Christ amen…. my one and only religious experience arose the first time we fooled around and I got the entire David naked experience. An ex-Israeli solider, David didn’t subscribe to the ‘waifish upperbody’ of the typical racer and liked to work out because ‘guns are heavy’. Did I mention that cyclists are all psychotic sadists? Nothing like rolling around with a guy who kept his guns armed and available at the bedside. (though with hindsight, David’s questionable intelligence did lead to some spectacularly bad decision making, including leaving ammo next to the dogs bed. Poor Coen). Regardless, he was beautiful. A breathtakingly beautiful, slightly psychotic man.
After helping stop a former boyfriend from stealing my car (don’t ask), he decided that I needed a man in my life and he was it. After lessons on shooting, how to kill a man with a Bic pen and how to have sex on a yoga ball (not sure how that was part of the military training, but hey…it was fun), David cemented his role as boyfriend by asking me to ‘go steady’. He liked his women strong, fierce and apparently, from the 50s.
Dating a beautiful man was new to me, I’ve typically been more attracted to skinny geeks than Greek gods, but I was smitten. As a historically successful dater of cyclists, I figured I had that part down pat, but nothing had prepared me for David’s level of 2 wheeled obsession.
David didn’t have a job, (something that mystified me but was later explained as the US version of ‘landed gentry’), and therefore his entire life revolved around his amateur racing status. He rode. And rode. And rode. And recovered from riding. And rode some more. My role, as girlfriend, was to support these efforts including;
- Coming over to his house to provide him with post ride massages (gladly done and armed with warm oil and camera…why?….are you kidding me?)
- Ensuring his diet included the optimum balance of low GI, high protein, high energy grains and proteins (factoring in his Jewish aversion to all things non kosher, diary or anything with taste)
- Joining him in nursing his single Monday evening beer (the reward for his 250 mile week), and a rehashing of his performance and bike stats
- Standing on the sidelines of every local and regional racing event through the spring, summer and fall months to watch him fly by for a single second
- Watching old VHS tapes of TdF, Giro and all one day classics from 1982-1998, complete with his assessment on team strategy, bike components and individual racer stats
- Providing morale and physical support during race crashes, pulled muscles, snatched victories and slightly elevated temperatures
Why you might ask? What kind of idiot is such as doormat? Well I was 29 and obsessed by the sight of him naked, and yes, I did like cycling (plus I was getting to be a really good shot with his Ruger). David also spent his entire life on a bike or in bed, so it kind of was a win win for me..that is, until the day ‘it’ stopped working. Yes, the one downside of spending his days on a carbon seatpost, burning 10,000 calories at a time was a huge tailing off of desire and ability to… well.. exercise with me.
‘Yeah.. it sometimes happen mid season.. when I’m riding a lot’
‘for how long?’
‘oh.. the rest of the season’
‘….in 3 months’
‘.. but then its time for cyclecross so it doesn’t bother me…’
I can take obsessiveness, masochism, high maintenance diets and yes, even freezing my ovaries off on the sideline of the local crit in a snowstorm…but in the words of Meatloaf, ‘..but I won’t do that’.
Plus now I knew how to kill a man with a Bic, I was ready to get back on Match.com.