Maternity Leave (40 page)

“Just stay on my wheel tomorrow and you’ll be fine,” she said.

“I’ve been trying to stay on your wheel for three weeks. It hasn’t worked.”

“That’s because you’re a pussy. Remember rule number one, don’t be a pussy.”

“Right. I’m pretty sure I’ll be a world class sprinter tomorrow. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Alyssa said, as she fell asleep.

I spent the night cuddling between Sonny and Alyssa, trying to visualize sprinting instead of focusing on reading Alyssa’s mind, or fearing my future disqualification, disbarment and incarceration.

* * *

The next day,
The Olympian
, the local newspaper in Olympia, Washington, cleared up any doubts I had about the whole truth and nothing but the truth coming out. A blurb on the bottom of the front page read, “Tour de West Wraps Up Today: Complete Coverage in Section B3, Including a Report on Race Saboteur, Jenna Rosen.” I turned to the article.

Jenna Rosen, the Tampa lawyer-turned-cyclist, overcame a seven minute time deficit in the Tour de West several days ago by embarking on a daring solo breakaway against the entire field of cyclists in the 104-mile Stage 17. The main pack of riders, the
peloton
, was on pace to cross the finish line in Tillamook, Oregon, approximately two to four minutes after Rosen, but were delayed nine minutes by a broken drawbridge.

An investigation by police and race officials quickly revealed the bridge was intentionally sabotaged by Rosen’s boyfriend, Quinton Smith of Tampa, who is now in custody. Reached by phone last night, Quinton’s mother, Sarah Smith, also of Tampa, said, “If Quinton did it, it’s because she [Rosen] told him to. He would do anything for her.” Rosen’s boss, David Greene of the Tampa law firm of Johnson Smith Jones Greene Taylor LLP, was also reached for comment: “I don’t know anything about Jenna and her boyfriend rigging a bridge, but he may be the father of her kid.”

No details about Rosen’s alleged child were immediately available, though it has been confirmed that Rosen is currently on maternity leave from her law office. However, there appears to be no evidence that she ever gave birth.

Rosen is currently in fourth place overall in the Tour de West after voluntarily gifting back the time she gained as a result of the bridge incident. She has not yet commented on the situation. 

Today’s final stage starts at ten-thirty a.m. in Olympia and travels 60 miles into Seattle, where riders will complete fifteen laps of a technical two-mile course around Seattle.

I read the article twice and immediately decided it would not make my scrap book. I checked voice mails and found my mailbox completely full. I had no interest in listening to any of the messages and tried instead to distract myself with
Parade
magazine. I made it to “Ask Marilyn” when two race officials approached the host house and asked to speak with me. One was the older official from the day before and the other was young and fit, clearly a racer. They were both wearing the light blue polo T-shirts from USA Cycling. I brought my food with me and stepped outside. I wanted to eat as much as I could before the ninety-mile race.

The race officials informed me that I had been disqualified and that I would not be permitted to start the last stage.

“For what?” I replied.

“You’re kidding, right?” the young official responded.

“No, I’m dead serious,” I said. “I didn’t rig a bridge or tell anyone else to. Besides, after it was rigged, I tried to avoid taking the Yellow Jersey and protested taking the lead. Then, I gave back the time I didn’t rightfully gain.”

“We’ve confirmed that you weren’t involved in the bridge incident. That’s not why we’re disqualifying you. You took a maternity leave to race but have no baby. That’s extremely suspect.”

“That has nothing to do with this race,” I insisted passionately.

“It just doesn’t seem right to let you race.”

“I didn’t kill a baby, and I’m in fourth place. I’m not exactly deciding the outcome but I’m close enough to make it a heartbreaker. If it turns out later that I’m a baby killer and bridge rigger, you can disqualify me and take back my prize money. If you disqualify me now and I turn out to be innocent, I have no recourse.”

“Are you a baby killer?”

“No. I know Casey Anthony gave Florida moms a bad name, but I’m not a baby killer and I’m not even a mother. I’m a frustrated lawyer who needed to find a way to race her bike.”

“How are you on maternity leave?” They still hadn’t put two and two together, yet.

“I faked a pregnancy so that I could compete in this race.”

“That’s fraud, which is unsportsmanlike. You’re not racing,” the official said firmly.

“That’s a very broad reading of the ‘unsportsmanlike’ clause,” I argued, referring to the cycling rule book that I’d never actually read. “Don’t you think my time in jail will be punishment enough for my unsportsmanlike conduct?”

“That’s completely unrelated to this.”

“My point exactly,” I said.

“You’re not racing.”

Hmm. Do I go with guilt and gentle persuasion, or threats? I started with the former.

“Come on, my boss is a total douche bag and I work for insurance companies, it’s not like I made a mom and pop shop fund this trip. I really love cycling and my one wish before I become disbarred, arrested, and destitute is to finish this race.”

“I’m sorry. The decision is final,” the shorter official said.

I had no choice but to escalate to threats. “I’ll sue.”

“Sue who?”

“You, USA Cycling, the race promoters.”

“For what?”

I looked him in the eye and started spouting off nonsense, mostly in Latin, “
Forum non convenienes
,
demurer, ipso facto
,
mandamus
,
certiorari
,
quantum meruit
,
in limine, lis pendens
,
res ipsa loquitur
,
and sua sponte.
”

“What the hell is that?”

“You’ll find out,” I said in my most threatening voice.

The officials looked at each other in confusion, then responded in unison, “Fine, you can race.”

“Great, see you out there,” I said.

I finished eating and got ready. We had a team meeting before the race. I was only four seconds out of third place, so standing on the overall podium was technically possible if anyone in positions one through three crashed out, or if I placed in the top three today and picked up bonus seconds. I didn’t want option one and option two was highly unlikely unless I was in a breakaway, which never happens on the last stage, since all the big teams want to win and won’t let anyone get away. Because of my abysmal sprinting, the team agreed it would work for Brenda and Alyssa today unless I got into a break, in which case the team would block for me by setting a tempo slower than my speed, but fast enough so that no one would try to attack.

* * *

As I approached the start, I heard someone call out, “Pearl.” No one calls me by my middle name except my dad and it sounded a lot like him. I turned around to see my parents standing there.

“Did you come to see me race?” I asked in disbelief.

“No, we came to bail you out of jail.” Their expressions definitely looked more like concerned parents instead of proud supporters. I gave them both a hug.

“You may still have your chance, but I have to go now,” I said.

“Here, Jenna, wear this,” said Dad.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“It’s a specially designed cycling mask. It’s fiberglass and fits the contours of your face and under your helmet. There’s a space for sunglasses, too.”

“How did you get the contours of my face?” I asked as I held the mask up to my face, amazed at how well it fit.

“Your undertaker brother made a mold with the same material he uses to reconstruct accident victim’s faces,” Mom said proudly.

I smirked that they were proud of their kid molding dead people’s faces but concerned about their athlete. Then I looked at the mask which was beyond goofy. “What’s with the big nose and mouth?” I asked.

“It’s a built-in airbag and trip wire system,” explained Dad proudly. “If you face-plant, the second the long nose touches the pavement the mini airbag goes off and your face is saved.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I also have this Hannibal Lecter model you could wear if you prefer,” said Dad, holding up an equally ridiculous looking contraption.

“I’m not wearing a mask,” I insisted.

“Please,” Dad implored, sounding both concerned and non-negotiable. “I even have a cutout for your peripheral vision.”

“Is that what that is?” I asked. “I thought it was a hole for what’s left of my dignity to seep out during the race.”

“Wear the mask for your father, Jenna.” Mom said sternly. “He’s been buying off Tampa judges for the last twenty-four hours and I think he has more work ahead to keep you out of jail back there.”

“Sweet,” I said, “I can’t believe I’ve been worrying. I forgot how corrupt Tampa is.”

“The mask,” Dad said.

“Fine, I’ll wear the mask. It will be a good disguise from the media.”

“One more thing, Jenna,” said Dad. “Can you race on the sidewalk? The street makes us very nervous.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making a joke or really thought this was a safe alternative. “That’s not going to happen,” I said. “But don’t worry, the course is cut off to traffic.”

The mask fit right under my helmet and was lightweight and ventilated. I rode to the start, excited by the prospect of racing my bike after the last twenty-four hours of hell. Obviously, my number one goal for the race was to place on the podium on today’s stage, securing a third place overall finish. A not-too-distant secondary goal was to not place last. My third goal was to avoid testing out the airbag-facemask in front of my parents.

After taking it easy for the first sixty miles, mimicking the ceremonial ride into Paris of the Tour de France, the race started in earnest as we entered the city limits of Seattle. The course through Seattle was a two-mile circuit but had tight corners like a criterium. I instantly moved into last place, barely hanging on, as soon as the circuit began. The race became strung out in a line almost a quarter-mile long, consisting of the ninety-two women that were still in the race after three long weeks and 1,855 miles. Every few minutes, the race slowed down a fraction when one breakaway was caught and the next attempted to get away. Normally, I’d use these moments to take my hand off the bars and get a drink, or just to breathe, but today I kept going. I made up twenty spots in two city blocks before the pace stepped up again. I didn’t want to lose the position, so I forced myself to move my hands. Normally, I ride with my hands hovering over the brakes and tap them frequently. In an effort to avoid touching them, I removed my fingers from their vicinity. It was scary, but I held my place through the corner, then another corner. The next time the pace slowed, I accelerated another fifteen spots, putting me within the first one-third of the pack. For the first time in a professional race, I could actually see the front of the
peloton
in a criterium.

With one two-mile lap remaining, I was still positioned in the front third. Now the jockeying for position began in earnest. A rider came up on my left as we entered a right hand turn and tried to pinch me into the corner. Instead of touching my brakes, I stuck my elbow out and held her at elbow length; a perfectly legal move in cycling I had always been afraid to try at high speed because if it doesn’t work, you’re pinched in the corner. It worked. On the next turn, I intentionally took the inside line with my elbow out to deter anyone from getting near me. I made up three spots in the corner instead of losing ten.

Instead of concentrating on my fear, I fixated on the lyrics to that song “Move Bitch
”,
by Ludacris.I was practically singing aloud.
Move Bitch, Get Out the Way, Get Out the Way Bitch, Get Out the Way
. It worked beautifully. All I knew was the chorus, but that’s the inspiring part. By the time we rounded the last corner, I sat in sixth position. Entering the final straightaway, I saw Brenda jump on my right. Instead of checking behind me to see if anyone was on her wheel, which there surely was, I pounced, knowing that Brenda always found a way through the pack. I positioned my bike one inch behind Brenda’s rear wheel and after sitting in her draft for three seconds, accelerated up the left hand side of the pack through a very narrow opening, crossing the finish line third on the stage, thus securing third place overall for the Tour de West.

I screamed and raised my arms in triumph. I made such a spectacle of myself that the winner of the stage turned around to inform me that she and second place both beat me by over a wheel’s length, a sizable margin in cycling.

“Good for you,” I said as I continued with my victory lap, hands in the air, screaming, “Yo, Adriane! I did it!” I had no idea why I was imitating
Rocky,
and neither did the winner, but there I was. The winner looked very confused. I started to explain, since she was from one of the European teams, but instead yelled directly to her, “Yo, Adriane! I did it!” Whereupon she punched me square in the face. I didn’t feel a thing other than the heat from the two small airbags in the mask. I laughed. Nothing could keep me down. The whole team, including Brenda and Alyssa, plus Erica and Danny, were all hugging me.

* * *

I stood on the third step of the podium for the award ceremony. It took all of my self-control not to cry like Miss America as I held up my flowers. Despite all of the adversity, I’d done it. I’d gotten out of my office, raced as a pro, learned how to sprint and kicked ass at the biggest women’s cycling race in history. From the podium, I could see my parents cheering for me. As I walked over to them after the ceremony, I passed Alyssa. “Good job,” she said. She was smiling with no indication that she was pissed at being beaten by the climber.

“That was pretty impressive,” Dad said. “And I mean both getting third place and not dying.”