Snapping my helmet on and putting my sunglasses on top of that, I start off, doing an easy ride toward the Point gates. It finishes my warmups, and by the time I hit the gates and ride out toward the Bear Mountain Bridge, I'm leaning over my handlebars, cranking. I take the course that lets me avoid most of downtown Highland Falls, the town that exists right outside the main gates, which is just too much a pain in the ass with traffic. Instead, I stick to the less crowded route. Up ahead, I see another bike, and I wonder if another of my teammates decided to do the same route I did.
As I get closer, I see that the bike's not one of the Corps' bikes. We ride Diamondbacks, mainly because they're cheap and long-lasting, according to some of the firsties. Not a bad bike, a hell of a lot better than what I rode back home in Michigan, but then again, I took a while to get used to the racing handlebars too. This person though, they're riding a Specialized rig, a bit more expensive than what the US Army is willing to pay for its triathlete cadets.
I pull even and glance over, cracking an easygoing grin. “Hi.”
The other rider barely glances my way. “Hi.”
I can tell from the sticker on the seat post that it's a USMA registered bike. Whoever it is lives here, and it's a she. Still, we're both going a good speed, and the words are ripped from our lips nearly as soon as we speak. “Where you headed?” I say loudly.
“Don't know, just out for fun,” she yells. “You?”
“Bear Mountain Bridge,” I reply, pointing. “You down for pairing up?”
“Sure,” she shouts, taking the lead. She's got good form. That Specialized bike is a lot lighter than mine, and she pulls away quickly. Grinning, I click down a gear and pedal, letting myself get into it. The burn starts in my quads, and I'm loving the feel of it, but sadly, the Bear Mountain Bridge isn't all that far, only eight miles even if I include the long lap around the parade ground, and we're soon watching the bridge approach. In the last quarter-mile, I pull up next to her and keep pace until we reach the limits of the bridge. Since it's a toll bridge, it's a good place to turn around.
Instead of turning though, she stops and climbs off her bike. I slow and circle back, and I see that she’s checking her rear tire. I stop too and get off my bike, surprised by my concern. “Everything okay?”
“Just forgot to tighten a thumb-bolt,” she tells me softly. I can’t help but like the tone of her soft voice. It’s like music to my ears, soft and serious, yet still playful. She stands up and grabs a water bottle, pulling off her helmet and sunglasses. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, a surge of desire running up from the core of my stomach. I know I've been stuck at West Point that’s eighty-seven percent men for a year and some change, and I know that I haven't had a girlfriend since breaking up with Cindy Mandrowitz during the first semester of my plebe year, but holy shit, she's hot. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one she'd had tucked in her jacket before, and she's got clear blue eyes that rival the sky above us with their intensity. “You ride like a pro.”
“Thanks,” she replies, taking a sip of water. Her cheeks seem to redden at my compliment, but I can’t be sure. “Six miles isn't much, but I couldn't ride at all the past three days, so I didn't want to chafe on my seat.”
“Your backside looks fine to me,” I say, unable to stop the words from flying out of my mouth.
Come on, Aaron, I think to myself, even the cheesiest pickup line is better than telling a woman she's got a nice ass even before you know her name.
I play it off, not giving her a chance to respond. “Name's Aaron.”
“Lindsey,” she says, offering her hand. We shake, and she has a nice grip, not too hard, not too soft. It's strong but still feminine, and I can feel a twitch in my own tights that has nothing to do with the blood flooding my quads right now. “You do a lot of riding, Aaron?”
“I try,” I reply, feeling like a total idiot. Smooth, Simpson, real smooth. Jesus, you need to get laid. This is pathetic. You did better as a sophomore in high school. “I’m training to try and get through a half-Ironman in the spring. The run and swim are easy for me, but the bike . . . fifty-six miles is a long way.”
“I know,” Lindsey says knowingly, and I'm impressed. She doesn't say it in a cocky way, just an acknowledgement that she's an experienced rider. “What's your max distance so far?”
“I've done twenty-five quite a few times, but the farthest I've pushed is forty,” I answer. “That was rough. What about you?”
“I did a century ride a few years ago,” Lindsey says, again without bragging. “It ached, but think of it this way. If I can do that, you can do a fifty-six easy.”
I whistle, impressed. Looking down, I can't help it—I check out her legs. She's wearing tights like me, even if they are a lime green civilian model, and her thighs are impressive. “That's a heck of a ride. Are you a triathlete too?”
Lindsey laughs musically, and I decide that no matter what, I’m going to see her again. Whatever it takes. “No, just a rider. I hate to swim. So, you've done shorter triathlons before?”
I nod, taking a swig of water from my own bottle. “A sprint and an Olympic last year,” I admit. “I really should be doing shorter distance ones first, but this chance to do the half-Ironman, it's a big challenge. I'm just the sort of guy who likes big challenges.”