|Dangerspouse Rides Again|
Garage - Track
Oct. 28, 2003 - 2:31 p.m.
HAH! I say again.
Normally I'm not one to take pleasure in someone else getting bitch slapped by Fate. Especially if I happen to be married to the slapee. But...
You may recall my previous entry, where NewWifey(tm) and I were about leave for the beautiful mountains of Central Connecticut to participate in a motorcycle race. Well, one of us would be participating. The other (moi) was obligated to stand at a lonely corner of the course and watch everybody else have fun. It's the law.
NewWifey(tm), naturally, made the most of this on the ride up: "Oh man, this is great. Isn't this great? Look, it's all drizzly and mucky - I'm gonna kick female butt today, I tell ya. None of those other pussy pussies ever practice in the rain. Not like me. I'm gonna so stomp their faces. Bunch of pussies. You like racing in the rain too, right Honey? Especially at Meriden. What's your strategy gonna...oh wait! You're not riding today, I forgot. That's right, you have to wear one of those faggy orange vests and wave your little flag wildly while the rest of us ignore you. Have fun! God, this is gonna be so great. That piss-ant blond chickee with her stupid coordinated boots and helmet doesn't stand a chance. I know just where I'm gonna face-plant her, too. You know that rock pile on the back stretch...."
And on and on and on.
Just to make sure I didn't forget, every other paragraph had the line "you're not racing today" inserted somewhere. Even if the subject had somehow changed from racing. "...then my boss came over and informed me all snotty like that the ledger from the 18th...ooh, you're gonna stand on that little ledge like you always do, right? I mean, because you're not racing today, you're officiating. I'll wave as I go by. Anyway the expenditures were all listed as...."
The entire 130 mile trip from Vernon NJ to Meriden CT was like sitting next to a giant, noisey crow.
We parked in the muddy, rutted field and I unloaded her bike while she pranced down to the sign-up area. The Clerk of the Course looked at his clipboard.
"You know NewWifey(tm), you haven't fulfilled your officiating obligation yet. If you don't do it today, you lose all your season points."
She came back, head down, helmet dragging behind her in the mud by its strap. She was wearing a bright orange vest.
"Dont. Say. A. Word."
I didn't. We trudged the mile or so down the trail in silence. All NewWifey(tm) had for footwear - other than her racing boots, which are impossible to walk distances in - was a pair of mesh top, open toe platform sandals. No rain gear either. I would have offered mine, but I know how particular she is about fashion. I'd hate to affront her delicate sensibilities.
Buy the time we got twenty yards out she was shipping muddy water from every pore. Think Goldy Hawn in "Private Benjamin", after her sodden forced march in Basic Training...but without the rain slicker. That was my Sweety Poopsie.
As luck would have it, we were posted right next to each other. So now instead of having her hurl obscenities at me once a lap, I'd have an uninterrupted stream to splash around in.
I tried to cheer her up as best I could, regardless. She's still my NewWifey(tm) after all.
"Hey Sweetie - I know you didn't pack any food because you were planning on racing today. You must be awful hungry. Would you like this apple core? Really, I'm done with it. Go ahead, Honey, I hate to see you waste away."
That seemed to be her response to all my efforts. Poor girl. The distress of knowing her hubby was not able to go riding when he really wanted to was making her unbalanced. I resolved to keep trying anyway, to show I was holding up despite my disappointment. I had to be strong for both of us.
"Hey Sweetie - look! The blond chickee with the Prada boots and helmet is in the lead! I know how much you enjoy fierce competition, and she really embodies all that you love in this sport. Isn't that great? Oh wait...if she wins today...."
If she wins today, she bumps NewWifey(tm) from #1 to #2 for the season. It was that close. NewWifey(tm)'s sandals started to steam.
The little blonde in the spandex suit with the matching boots, helmet, and Hermes do-rag won by a C.H. The crowd went wild.
The walk back to the car was done in stages. Walk 10 yards, stop to vomit. Walk 10 yards, kick a shoe down the trail. Hobble 10 yards, throw a rock. Or a turtle. Or hubby's novelty laughing dentures.
We made it back just as they were awarding trophies. As this was the last event of the season, they had a special ceremony afterwards to hand out the giant trophies and number plates to all the class winners, from first through fifth. Every one else had had time to wash up and change into fresh togs. NewWifey(tm) looked like month old road kill with runny mascara.
She didn't even care. The announcer called her name and she shuffled up trailing swamp goo, and blood from her one shoeless foot. She accepted her 4 foot high inscribed trophy and #2 plate mutely, with about as much enthusiasm as an AIDS patient being handed an aspirin.
The drive down 91 to 84 to 6 to 17 to home went by in a flash. I had the window down, ABBA on continuous loop, bellowing along at the top of my lungs. NewWifey(tm) sat in a puddle of her own dejection, oblivious to my buoyancy. We pulled in and I unloaded our sodden gear. She didn't stir from the passenger seat til I had the car emptied and was traipsing up the walk.
She got out, carrying the trophy and number plate. Plonk...squish...plonk...squish...all the way to the front door. The dog started humping her leg - his usual greeting - but she didn't even look down. She walked over to the trophy case, rearranged the 27 other trophies she'd won this year to make room for the new one, and took a long gaze at all the empty spaces on my side of the case. She turned and finally broke her silence.
It's gonna be a long off-season.....