In the Shadow of Greatness

Antonius Roberts. Emerging from the Shadows. 2007. Acrylic on canvas. 46 x 28 inches. Courtesy of The Dawn Davies Collection

Adoorbell announced my presence in the specialty bike store with a chime, but other than that nobody seemed to notice. I'd just come from a job interview, so I was the only person with buttons on my clothes. The rest of the staff and clientele had poured their taut, tanned bodies into Lycra and Spandex. I was out of place, even while subconsciously sucking in my stomach.

""Hello," I said, and after a moment the lean, bronzed clerk looked up. "I'm here to pick up a bike."

He made his way over to a binder, and flipped through a dozen invoices. "What's the name?"

"Sullivan," I said. "Michael Sullivan. It's for the triathlon tomorrow," I said. He looked me up and down.

"It's for my cousin," I said. At this, he smiled, the way you do when your assumption turns out to be correct.

"Yeah, here it is," he said. "Mike."

What threw me was the air of entitlement. True, he knew more about cycling than I did, but then again he worked in the Goddamn store, so of course he did. Also I didn't care, so I hoped that leveled the playing field.

Cycling is immensely popular in San Diego. Mountain bikes, road bikes, fixed-gears and BMXs were omnipresent, dotting every bike lane, off-road trail, and Subaru in the county, but I'd managed so far to avoid the bug. I owned a bicycle, understood how to put air into the tires, and could pop an occasional wheelie, but that's where the relationship ended.

When he brought the bike around, it was sleek and intimidating, and it weighed no more than a carne asada burrito. "What kind of pedals do you need?" The question surprised me. I'd wrongly assumed that, along with a chain and seat, bicycle pedals were considered fairly standard components, rather than aftermarket options.

"Foot pedals?"

He wasn't amused. Well, what the hell do you expect? I wanted to say. We've already established that it's not for me. Instead I just shrugged.

"Well, are they Shimanos? Forte? Are they Speed Play? Garfunkels? Velociraptors?" At this point I think he was actually trying to be helpful, but after he rattled off the fifth name, they stopped sounding like actual words. I shrugged again. "Can't you call your cousin?"

I couldn't, though. He was on an airplane. He was much busier than I was. That's why I was picking up the bicycle.

He sighed, as though this were all part of some master plan to make his life more difficult. To his credit, the guy eventually gave me a bag with three different types of pedals, and a stern lecture about preparation. He actually started to soften and sympathize with me, until I broke his heart by cramming the bicycle, unceremoniously, into the trunk of my Civic.

Mike was in town for less than twenty-four hours, so I'd offered to put him up. He was flying into San Diego to do a triathlon, a race that consisted of unnatural amounts of swimming, cycling, and running. He arrived after midnight, and we caught up for a while in the garage, as he tuned up his bicycle and prepared four separate water bottles, each with its own energy-enhancing concoction. He tried to explain the difference between a road bike and a time trial bike, but it was late, and I was drunk and having a difficult time feigning interest.

The next morning, we were out the door by 4:10 a.m.. The sky was dark and Mike ate his organic oatmeal from a Tupperware he'd brought with him. We made the forty-mile drive in record time, but even so, Mission Bay was already crowded by the time we got there, and we had to park a mile and a half away. Mike wanted to loosen up, so he clicked his...