Free Ride

Tim and I have been married for more than 30 years. If you are like me, your spouse’s personality is probably different from yours. There are a couple of examples of how that works in our relationship.

Tim is the left brained one—logical, sequential and organized. I’m right brained—creative, artistic and sometimes disorganized. Every month Tim asks me if I put my business tax receipts in the file he made for me. I say, “Yes dear.” The next month once again I say, “Yes, dear.” Last year when the time came for preparing taxes I pulled out a thick folder as Tim pointed to the 14 individual category files he had created for the receipts. He is committed to being organized.

Tim is also committed to saving money. He calls it value engineering. In fact he’s so good at it that in the past he has arranged my travel reservations at the best possible price. I never know if I’m going to be on Delta Airlines or a Greyhound bus.

Several years ago we flew to New Orleans for me to speak at the downtown convention center. If you’ve ever been to New Orleans you know that life moves at a different pace. I knew when we were coming from the airport that I was in New Orleans because the taxi driver, Hebert, was singing Cajun ditties about the bayou country as he cut across all three lanes. Tim knew he was in New Orleans when he walked down Bourbon Street and smelled the good food like Muffalatas, Po Boy sandwiches and jambalaya.

We checked into a remodeled hotel for a great price with a AAA discount, rewards points, frequent flier miles and Tim even asked for the good guy discount.

The next morning, I’m getting ready and imagining how much fun the audience will be, what I’m going to wear and what I’ll say. Tim is securing transportation to the convention center that is about 10 blocks away. When he got back to the room he looked at my skirt and said that he liked my light grey pantsuit better.

Now for him, a man, to make an unsolicited comment about what I was wearing was an oddity in itself. And then, to actually take a stand and choose an outfit that he liked was just shy of a miracle. As I smoothed out the wrinkles, I wondered if it might mean that he really does notice the clothes I wear.

I heard giggles when I walked downstairs past the bell stand. I turned around and the bellman winked at me. I’m thinking I really must look  great in this pantsuit!

As I started to hail a taxi Tim said, “Uh, not exactly.” Well then a rental car? “Uh, no not that either.” He said, “We’re going to have some fun.” I thought that he must have rented a horse and buggy. I lighten up and say, “A horse and buggy?” “Uh, nope.” Then Tim leads me to the side of the hotel where the entire bell staff was gathered behind us pointing and snickering at our mode of transportation—a bicycle built for two—a tandem bike.

So now I know that he wasn’t noticing how I looked in the light grey pantsuit, but planning how I would pedal in it.

I said, “Nice bike. Let’s go.” Tim looks relieved as he gives a thumbs up to the bellmen and says, “That’s my wife.”

In many of my presentations, I use a lot of props. My engineer husband had stuffed all my gear into a backpack for him to carry. He is almost 6’6” tall. I have the pleasure of being pedaled to the convention center by Bigfoot. There’s a lot of him to fit on the bike. And a large backpack rests right in my face. I can’t brake, change gears or steer. And with him wearing the backpack, I can’t see either!

Octobers are muggy in New Orleans, but Tim assured me that I wouldn’t get sweaty because I could just ride along without having to pedal. I mumbled that my hair was going to be a mess. He tried to humor me by saying “I have some duct tape.” I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

We hadn’t ridden half of a block when we discovered that we both had to pedal at the same pace to make the bike work correctly. There I am on the back of the bicycle built for two and we’re whizzing down Bourbon Street. I am trying to keep my light grey pants out of the chain grease plus hold my hair in place like I’m in the homecoming queen on the back of a convertible (except I’m having to work harder) and keep my commitment to having fun while getting it done.

One thing that I quickly realized was that I couldn’t understand a word Tim said. Come to think of it I haven’t understood a thing he’s said for more than 30 years. He yells back at me and I thought he said, “Pump!” I put all my energy into trying to pump or pedal the bicycle, but what he really said was “Bump!” What we have here is a failure to communicate.

We are riding on a flat street, but we’re not moving very fast even though I am straining as hard as I can to pedal. It didn’t take long to find out why. He had the brakes on because there was a large pothole ahead of us. Tim was able to slow down and maneuver to the side of it, but his foot slipped off the pedal into the pothole, which was full of mud, and splashed everywhere. The only thing that went through my mind was, “I hope the mud is the same color as my pantsuit when it dries.” Now, instead of being pedaled to the convention center by Bigfoot, it is now wet foot.

Moving right along, we approach the intersection to the convention center. Tim said something to me. I thought he said, “Go!” But it was another vehicular command that rhymes with go—slow. I thought he said go and I was glad because I’d had just about enough of this “divorce machine”—I mean bicycle. Before he could put the brakes on, I pedaled him right out in the street in front of an oncoming trolley.

At that point he didn’t have time to change his mind. Mr. Engineer is not accustomed to making snap decisions. He’s used to taking the circumference of the square root of pi and putting it into his calculator and evaluating three different ways to solve the problem. This changed a logical, sequential organized individual into a wet-footed, pedaling maniac.

I have to rely on him to bring the family unit to the convention center safely since I still can’t see around him, brake, steer or change gears.

As we are approaching the convention center he said, “This is taking a lot longer than I thought.” And to most people that doesn’t mean much, but what it means to a left-brained engineer is that unless he can get back to the hotel quickly he’ll pay another ½ hour on the bike rental.

So the next thing he said is, “I’ll just slow down and you hop off.” As we came in under the canopy at the convention center he slipped his arms out of the backpack, which landed in my lap and forced me to dismount in a somewhat unladylike fashion. If I had gotten points in the Olympics, it would have been a negative three.

I zipped into the bathroom and checked my pants legs, straightened my hair and walked out on the platform and said a funny thing happened to me on the way to the convention center. . .

This story reminded of being offered a ride on the back of a tandem bike. Today’s gift was to offer our neighbor a ride into town. And since the temperature was in double digits below zero, she was glad to get a free ride that wasn’t on the back of a tandem bike.

In Giving,

Robin