Plunging into the Abyss

Note: A number of readers of "Quiet Desperation" (Romance section, published 8/17/17) urged me to write a follow-up. So, by popular demand as they say, here it is. Enjoy.

*

Tim

You only live once, right? We hear that all our lives. Yet it's only when we reach an advanced age that it hits home. I'm sixty, advanced enough to know, advanced enough to know that time is running out, that the window of opportunity to enjoy some of life's pleasures is beginning to close. In my case, we're talking about GUILTY pleasures; and Addison Weil is my guilty pleasure—guilty because we're both married, guilty because we have this strong mutual attraction that threatens to cause us trouble at home.

We met on a bike ride, an innocent bike ride that became anything but a couple rides later when things got romantic in her white Hyundai Sonata. Our shorts stayed on, keeping our genitalia from committing serious mischief. We kissed and stroked and felt and whispered lovely things. But we didn't, pardon the corny cliché, cross home plate.

Still, we cheated (sorry William Clinton, we did), and neither of us feels good about that. Facing my wife Diane wasn't easy. 'How did the ride go, honey?' she asked when I got home, fresh from my romp in the Hyundai. 'Oh, other than getting caught in the rain, it was okay,' I said this with a straight face while wincing internally from the visceral pain of violating my own moral code. To thine own self be true, and I wasn't.

But you only live once, right? See, there's the kicker, the thing that keeps buzzing around me like a swarm of pesky gnats. It's the Big Rationalization for doing the wrong thing. If it feels good, it's okay, we said in the sixties. Is it really? Nah, even if your wife is overweight, even if you're bored with a decades old marriage under your belt, even if you find that "dream" woman, whether it's through serendipity or other means. Not cool, not okay, and yet the hunger for making a deeper connection with Addie beckons. So far, I've seen her only on bike rides. Every day, I wrestle with the temptation to call, to ask if she'd like to meet for a drink or for lunch. So far, we haven't seen each other wearing anything but spandex. However, I don't have her cell, only her home number, and that wouldn't be cool at all, not with a husband who might answer. I therefore decide to hold off, to wait until I see her on the next bike ride.

*****

"This time I'm here because you're leading this ride," Addie says. "I thought of avoiding it, of avoiding all the fuss and complication that might result from seeing you. I'm weak, I guess."

"An apt description of me, Addie," I confess.

We're standing in the parking lot of Haybrook Elementary School on a Sunday morning. About ten Daring Derailleur club members are here, pumping their tires, checking over their machines, studying the cue sheets I hand out. I'm always psyched before rides I lead, even more so now because Addie's here. No surprise, she still looks great, glowing from her golden tan, her lithe, athletic bod wrapped in tight spandex. Those who pooh-pooh the notion that women in their fifties can't be babes, haven't seen Addie Weil. She's touched me good, and I don't mean just physically. "Something in the way she moves...and all I have to do is think of her..." as the song goes.

She clamps her front wheel onto the fork of her Fuji carbon machine. Then she says, "So, are we riding together? You're faster than me and I don't want to hold you back."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." I look up at the sky, nearly cloudless. "But I guess we won't end up in any farmer's shed today."

With a roguish grin, she says, "At least not to protect us from rain."

She refers to our last ride when we sought shelter in a rusted shed from a driving rainstorm and pressed our bodies together to keep warm. One thing led to another. Today, who knows? Already, I sense trouble, the delicious kind, and we haven't even left yet.

"Do you have something in mind?"

She grins. "With you, Tim, I've always got something in mind."

I leave it at that, then lead the troops off school grounds and onto the road for the beginning of our forty-mile trek. As usual, the fastest riders pull ahead after the first steep hill. Submitting to my competitive nature, I rise from the saddle and go after them, dropping Addie and the others. Cranking furiously, I catch them and stay with them all the way to the top, then wait for Addie and the others to catch up.

"Show off," Addie says, teasingly.

"Couldn't resist," I retort.

We trade good-natured trash talk on the descent. "I'd leave you in the dust on a long distance run," she brags. I don't argue because she's right. I mean, this is a chick who's run the Boston Marathon. Running isn't my thing. Never has been, not unless you count an occasional scoot down the block.

The fast group is now minutes ahead, gaining time with every pedal turn. Just as well, I plan to stick with Addie for the rest of the ride. We're riding through a mostly rural region, passing barns and cows and acres of fields bordered with barbed wire. I hope that the patch quilt of suburban development we pass doesn't spread further. We both voice concerns about that, about a change in zoning that could spell the end of verdant, wide-open spaces (where would we ride then?). Mostly we keep silent, trading warm smiles riding side-by-side on roads with wide shoulders. Should these bike rides be the extent of our connection, I'd still feel lucky. Of course, I'd like more. But, being pragmatic, I know that more is hardly feasible: tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

At mile twenty-two, we pull into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and park our bikes on the side of the building. Some in our group go inside, either to relieve themselves, buy sports drink or both. Addie and I brought two water bottles apiece, so we're okay. The humidity is low for this time of year. Still, we sweat. The smooth skin on Addie's tanned face glistens; her bangs mat to her forehead. My fantasies once again intrude, picturing her sweating face and body while we make love. Should I share these thoughts with her? Better not. Besides, she already knows. I'd love to kiss her, but right now that's not safe either, because there's people in our group that not only know we're both married, but know our spouses, Diane and Jim. The possible fallout gives me pause.

Addie peels back the foil on her energy bar and says, "You know, I'm starting to miss that shed."

"Yes, that was nice," I say, taking sips from my water bottle. "I guess there's no excuse for us doing that again, no rain or sudden temperature drop."

"Well, maybe we'll get an earthquake." Turning serious again, she stamps her foot, dragging the cleat of her black Specialized cycling shoe an inch across the pavement. "It's so infuriating to think we need excuses. Why can't we just get close?" She pauses. "Don't answer that, I'm being rhetorical. Duh."

I point to a clump of bushes behind the building that I've used as an "outhouse" when lines outside the 7-Eleven rest room become impossibly long. "We can steal some private moments in there," I say.

We wait until the few riders hanging around look distracted, then slink away. After wading into the bush, we feed our mutual passion. Pent-up emotion I've carried around for weeks pours out of me. I hold her tight, pepper her with kisses; my hands roam. Oh so naughty but oh so delicious. As much as I love cycling, I could hold Addie like this for the rest of the day.

In a crying whisper, she says, "Ohmygod, Tim, every second of this draws me closer to being alone with you in that dark room you mentioned."

"Could you? Would you?" I ask not knowing if I could cross that perilous crevasse myself.

"Maybe, perhaps." She shakes her head. "I don't know, Tim, I'm so damn confused right now I can barely think straight. All I know is that when I'm with you, I don't wish to be with anyone else, and that includes, well, you know."

A loud voice from the parking lot intrudes. "Come on fearless ride leader, lead us out of here. Where ever the hell you are."

"To be continued," I whisper to Addie.

We circle around the rear of the building and then emerge on the lot from the other side. Nobody looks suspicious, just restless to hit the road. I reach out and squeeze Addie's hand before mounting the saddle. The group sees it—and I couldn't care less.

*****

Addison

We're a few miles past the 7-Eleven and I still haven't come down from the high of Tim's affection. His masculine scent lingers and my skin still tingles from the way he kissed and touched me during our all too brief tryst in those bushes. Other married couples do their extracurricular in hotel rooms. Not us; we fool around in cars and in bushes behind convenience stores, comically absurd but also sexy in a daring, naughty kind of way. Tim doesn't know this, but I was so close to dropping my shorts. Picturing him stooping down and stabbing his tongue between my legs took all the control I had to keep them on.

I'm teetering on the brink of a dangerous precipice, thinking seriously about meeting him in that dark hotel room or in some comfortable place, devoid of faun and fauna and the intrusive eyes of cycling groups. Chronologically, I'm a middle-age woman. Emotionally and sexually, I don't feel older than nineteen, thanks to an incredibly handsome and fit sixty-year old that stirs passions and desires that had heretofore lay dormant. His 'form and face, his manly grace,' is indeed the kind you'd find in a statue (sorry Helen Morgan, but it's true). His body looks hewn from granite, from his washboard abs to his rippling quads, the quads I'm staring at right now as we pick up the pace, cranking over rural roads through bucolic countryside.

He glances back to check on me. "How are you holding up?"

"No cramping, if that's what you mean, but my quads are beginning to burn," I tell him. "If I do cramp, does that mean another leg massage?"

He chuckles. "Yes, of course. Like you had to ask."

I can think of other things I'd like him to massage, but I keep it to myself in deference to the other four riders in our group, Helen Markham among them. We've (my husband Jim and I) socialized with Helen and her hubby Stanley a few times. Helen's around my age, a good friend when you need her, but boy, what a gossip. If she even suspected there was something going on between Tim and me, it wouldn't take long before our bike club to know it. Even though she overhears my mention of leg massage, I figure I'm still on safe ground.

Well, maybe not, because when we pull into the parking lot of Haybrook Elementary, she takes me aside. Straddling her long legs across the top tube of her red aluminum Cannondale, she slips off her helmet, then shakes her bushy, salt and pepper hair out of her dark brown eyes. Wide-eyed and grinning, she says, "So Tim gave you a leg massage? It felt mighty good, I bet."

"Yes, weeks ago, when I cramped on a hilly half-century," I admit. "Hate to disappoint you, but there's nothing more to it than that."

She flashes me a smug grin. "I never implied otherwise. Just asking."

"Of course you didn't, Helen."

Ignoring my reply, she says, "It's just that if I know Jim...well, out of shape as he is, you know how insecure he can be when it comes to sports and body image. None of my business, but I don't think he'd appreciate another man giving you a leg massage, especially a physical specimen like Tim Farnsworth."

"Helen, not to be rude, but you had the last part right—it's none of your business."

In a gesture of surrender, she throws her arms up and frowns, then wheels her bike to her car.

Tim and I rack our bikes, then wait for the others to drive off. "We've got to be careful," I warn, after telling him about Helen. "That's all we need, someone to catch us in the act."

He sits on the rear bumper of his hatchback, changing from his cycling cleats into his street shoes, an old pair of brown loafers. "I agree. Bushes and cars present a risk. Of course, there's always...dare I say it, motel rooms." He raises his eyebrows and grins like a little boy who knows he said something naughty.

I pause to ponder. In my mind, the prospect of being with Tim outside of these bike rides has become as much metaphorical as literal, symbol of a moral dilemma that seems irreconcilable. "You dare say it. But can you dare do it?"

He stuffs the cycling shoes inside his equipment bag. "Honestly, I'm not sure. Maybe we should meet for lunch first."

"Work our way into it, you mean."

"Something like that. In cycling parlance, crank slow, then accelerate."

"So, we'll meet for lunch and then hit the motel room?"

We both laugh, standing by our cars on this empty school lot, tired and sweaty. I reach out to hug him. "Seriously, Tim Farnsworth, where do we go from here? I know, what you told me weeks ago. We follow our instincts."

He wraps his arms around me. "Maybe I should amend that because if I followed my instincts, I'd lay you flat down in the cab of my Matrix, and make love to you right here and now. Forget a motel room. Because, Addie Weil, I'm fucking crazy about you."

I collapse into his arms, and we pick up where we left off behind the 7-Eleven. He smothers me in kisses, squeezes me as if he can't get enough of me. I don't want him to let me go. No surprise, I'm soaking wet. No surprise, he's on fire as well, and I don't know how long I can resist stuffing my hand down his shorts. I want his cock, yes, but more than that, I want him to love me. Because...because I feel myself falling for him in ways that will complicate my life beyond imagining. This is so damn stressful, so daunting, living in a marriage while I'm smitten with someone else. I struggle not to cry. But it's no use. My emotions boil over and I do.

"Addie—"

"Just hold me, Tim, just hold me," I plead.

He does. For a long time, he does. Then we part ways, putting our instincts on hold. But not before exchanging cell numbers, moving us closer to something we both crave.

*****

Tim

Things are getting serious—as in, it's not just about sex. It never was just about sex. Okay, initially, maybe it was. Addie's a babe, an athletic, middle-age babe, so it would be ludicrous, not to mention dishonest, to deny that her physical assets don't help. But, sexual/physical attraction alone, strong as it can be, isn't enough to throw me into an emotional tailspin. With Addie, it goes deeper. It's the whole package, plus that indefinable something that tugs at my heart, that clouds my better judgment.

Of course, I haven't said a word to my wife Diane. Still, I sense she senses something. Or, maybe not. Maybe it's more a case of projection, the guilt nagging at me that gives me that idea. We still have sex a few times a month, not bad for a couple that's been married for thirty years. I'm not unhappy in my marriage, just unfulfilled in certain ways that leave me frustrated. Friends of mine in long-term marriages tell me the same thing. It's the reason why so many spouses seek fulfillment outside of marriage, looking for someone to fill voids their significant others can't or won't.

I'm not sure where things will go with Addie, but one thing is certain: I want more than just a fling in the sack. I want to hold and kiss her as I did after our last ride. I want to share dinners and movies and walks on the beach at sunrise and sunset. I want to say 'I love you' and want to hear it back. I want to be with her without the Helen Markhams of the world telling the world.

I feel myself going from quiet desperation to noisy desperation. When alone, I sometimes say her name aloud. Addison Danielle Weil. Danielle...such a pretty middle name. She doesn't know I know it, that I got it off her Facebook page. No, we're not "friends," so phony anyway. We're friends in the true sense, friends on the cusp of possibly becoming something more.

POSSIBLY. The word plays in my brain like the four opening notes in Beethoven's fifth symphony: fate knocking at the door. I open that door and call. "Beethoven compelled me to call you," I tell her. We're both at work.

She chuckles. "Oh yeah? Well, we can't defy Beethoven, now can we? Mozart, maybe, but not Beethoven."

I guffaw. Addie's wry sense of humor is one thing that endears me to her. She goes with it, gets it. It's another thing, an important thing, we have in common. "No, we can't," I say, and then ask if she'd like to accompany me to the shore for a flatlands ride down the coast. Just a day trip, with some dips in the surf in between. "We should get back in time for dinner. If it's a problem, I mean with Jim, we can—"

"Are you kidding? It would be a problem if we didn't go. So what's the plan, man?"

*****

Diane doesn't question because I've gone on daylong bike rides before. Like those rides, she thinks I'm going with a group. She tells me to have fun and to call if I'll be home much beyond six.

I meet Addie at one of our usual start locations for our local weekend rides, another P&R. We take my car, setting her carbon Fuji on my roof rack, laying my aging steel Colnago in the cab of the Matrix. Our gear fits comfortably inside. We pack swimwear as well as our usual warm weather cycling clothes, which we wear under regular street shorts. It's a two-hour drive to the shore, so we should be there around nine, plenty of time to ride and perhaps get in some beach time. The eastbound traffic is heavy until we exit the Delaware Memorial Bridge and then hop on Route 40 toward our destination, Ocean City, New Jersey. We've both vacationed there—with different people, of course.

We park on 11th Street, a few blocks from the beach, strip down to our riding clothes, then get our bikes. "I can hardly believe I'm alone with you in Ocean City!" Addie cries. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me."

"Nor me, because I was thinking the same thing." I pull her toward me and kiss her. Damn, she smells good, a mix of sunscreen and the essence of something.

With full water bottles and energy bars tucked into our jerseys, we head south on Ocean Drive toward Cape May, about thirty miles as the crow flies. Good news: the ten mile per hour wind is coming from the south, which means we'll have a nice tailwind on the return. We take turns pulling into the headwind. Personally, if given the choice, I'd take hills over headwinds, especially on flat terrain like this. Once out of Ocean City, we take the causeway, then cross the bridge into Sea Isle City, one of about ten towns that hug the South Jersey Coast between Atlantic City and Cape May. The view from the bridges that connect these towns is spectacular, because you get a bird's eye view of where the bay and ocean meet. We cut through the wind, pacing in the mid-teens.

From Sea Isle, we cross into Avalon, where Ed McMahon summered before Johnny and the Tonight Show moved from New York to beautiful downtown Burbank. Ocean Drive becomes Main Street—lots of traffic lights, heavy motor traffic and tourists headed to the beach, shopping, etc. We reduce our pace, both to stay safe and to take in the local color. We've gone about fifteen miles and, after a brief rest, agree to ride as far as Stone Harbor before heading back.

By ten-thirty, we're hammering north, thanks to the southerly tailwind, powerful enough to where it almost feels as if the pedals are spinning on their own. We pull each other along, pacing in the upper teens to low twenties. Our competitive fires burn and we revel in storming past other cyclists along our route. Addie might not climb as fast as me, but she's a demon on the flats. On this terrain, we're about evenly matched.

By eleven, we crank over the bridge and cross back into Ocean City. Then we storm forty blocks up the island, again passing other cyclists, while also avoiding hazards such as open doors from cars parked between the curb and bike lane. Upon reaching my car, we rack our bikes and then step into our street clothes. We're in walking distance of many of the town's restaurants. "There's a nice little Chinese place on 9th Street," I say.