Late-Night Suite

Have you ever had something as simple as a stranger's calves ruin your entire sense of dignity?

That's how I should probably start this, since it's the truth. It's not the polished version I'd want to tell my friends, or the meet-cute version you tell during a group ride, but the real beginning. Because this whole thing didn't start with romance or anything poetic. Maybe it was fate, or more likely hormones, but either way, it started with legs.

More specifically, my right thigh, and his calves...

I don't know when it became a fixation. Maybe it came out of the countless hours I've spent on a bike over the years, watching stronger riders pass me on climbs. Seeing their calves tightening, releasing, working in these predictable, powerful motions that made mine feel like decorative accessories. Maybe it's the way the sun hits them when the road starts to tilt upward, causing highlights and shadows that exaggerate their definition. Or maybe it's just one of those quirks that slips into your wiring when you're not paying attention.

Either way, the obsession wasn't the problem. The problem was that it was his legs. And the day this happened, I hadn't seen them in months.

That morning was supposed to mark my big return to training for the annual charity ride I do every year. The city I live in has a massive cycling event that people come from all over for. Most do it to fundraise for charities, some do it casually to be able to boast that they did it, and then there were those that did it for the competition. Like I said, I fell into the charity group, and now that I'd already done some fundraising, it was time to get committed and begin the grueling training, so I could do the sixty plus miles I'd signed up for.

I hadn't been on the bike much lately, so I told myself if I could get through the long incline before the real hill, the worst my route would include, I'd be fine for the event. The incline has always been my nemesis. And this particular one wasn't particularly drastic, but it was long and constant, never offering you a break from pedaling. For me, it was a climb that tests your stubbornness more than your quads. At least most days

I felt pretty good for the first few miles. I had been keeping my breathing under control, the ten miles of riding had already warmed up my legs, and it was just late enough that the bite of chilly air was wearing off. Then, somewhere around the midpoint of the incline, my right quad began to tighten up. It was nothing more than a faint twang at first, but it was a persistent pull that refused to let me ignore it. I tried to work through it for another mile or so, but the warning my thigh was giving me became too much to ignore.

Deciding to listen to my body, I pulled to the edge of the shoulder and unclipped.

Cars passed. Riders passed. Everyone asked the same thing.

"You good?"

"Need water?"

"You alright?"

And I gave each one the same polite smile, along with the little wave that says Thanks, but keep going. I didn't want company. I just needed to stretch and reset and remind myself that I used to be better at this, but it was still just mind over matter.

Then he showed up. That man and those legs, being the whole reason I was flustered, when I shouldn't have been.

He braked beside me, half standing and balancing on his bike at a complete stop so smoothly that I felt like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time in comparison. He pulled off his glasses and looked me over with this easy concern that made something in my stomach flutter.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

And instead of delivering the calm, but direct Oh yeah, I'm good, just a stretch, something entirely unrecognizable came out of my mouth. That was the moment everything started to unravel.

By now he'd pulled one foot free and stood over his bike with one foot on the ground, the other still clipped into the pedal. I could feel my brain scrambling for even a modicum of composure the way it always did around him. It wasn't like we were strangers... Well, okay, we were, but not entirely. We'd been part of the same cycling route for about a year, doing the same training schedule more often than coincidence should allow.

I'd only ever known him as the guy in the navy jersey with the white stripe that was fitted to him a little too well for my sanity. He looked to be in his thirties, maybe early forties at the most. His face was handsome with a square jaw, a hint of stubble that was perfectly trimmed and shaped. It was well kept, making it obvious it wasn't just from not shaving for a day or two, but too short to really consider it a beard. And he had a way of holding himself that made him seem relaxed in his own skin whenever he talked to me. He was fit, clearly, but he didn't have the carved-from-stone look of a gym rat. If anything, his jersey made it look like there was the slightest softness around his stomach that made him seem more real and approachable.

It wasn't until then that I realized I didn't even know the color of his eyes. He always wore reflective sport-style sunglasses, no matter the weather, to help keep the wind out of his eyes, I assumed. Every time he passed and talked to me, it was the shape of his mouth or the squareness of his jaw that stuck in my mind. But like I already said, it was his legs that always made my heart skip. The defined muscles of his quads, the way the tight ropes of tendons stood out at the backs of his knees when he rode by, and especially his calves... Well-built and perfectly formed, standing out with every pedal stroke.

He always rode several miles per hour faster than I did, pushing through the climbs as if he were completely unbothered by them, while I was left sweating through my dark pink jersey with Cookie Monster on it. The first handful of times he passed me, all I heard was the familiar courtesy most cyclists call out before overtaking.

"On your left."

Polite but efficient.

Then he'd cruise by, and I would inevitably drop my eyes to his calves. I couldn't help it; they were impossible to ignore. They were defined without looking overly built, flexing in neat, powerful ridges as he pushed up ahead of me. I got used to that view. Sometimes it even motivated me to pedal harder to watch them as long as I could, which is embarrassing to admit out loud but still less embarrassing than what eventually happened.

Over time, it became a running pattern. His navy jersey. My dark pink one. A short greeting as he passed or when I caught up at stoplights. Nothing intense, or anything that would ever raise eyebrows. Just the slow evolution that happens when you see someone often enough that neutrality turns into familiarity.

"Morning."

"Morning. You always start this early?"

"Afternoon."

"Catching you at the end of your ride again? Maybe I'll be able to keep your pace one of these days."

"Rough climb today."

"Yeah, but you looked strong on it. I saw you pushing."

"Wind's brutal, huh."

"Brutal, but you cut through it better than I did. Might have to draft behind you next time."

"New jersey?"

"Yeah. You noticed?"

"Hard not to."

"You doing the tour this year?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Was wondering if I'd run into you on some of the routes before then."

"You always take this trail?"

"More often than not to get the road up to the climb."

But there was one ride a while back that still sticks with me more than it should. I was halfway up a short climb, standing out of the saddle with my chest low over the bars, doing a hard push I save for when I'm trying to prove something to myself. My breathing was labored, and my legs were on fire, but it felt good. I was working to power up it, and not just spinning in a low gear.

I heard a bike behind me, then he came up on my left, climbing as if it were as effortless as always.

"Looking good," he said as he passed.

Just that. Two simple words that any other time I wouldn't have given a second thought.

But the tone... the tone was warm enough that it didn't quite feel like simple feedback on my form. And the smirk he had when he glanced back for a second, checking to make sure he cleared me before sliding back over into the bike lane made it worse, because I'd been bent over my handlebars with my butt pretty much the only thing in his line of sight.

For the rest of that week, I kept replaying it, wondering if he meant the climb...

or if he meant me.

Aside from that, it was just little exchanges that carried hints of something warmer on certain days. Nothing ever flirty in any overt sense, but friendly enough that I sometimes replayed them after rides, wondering about little "what ifs." It helped that he had a beautiful smile. It also helped that he somehow always had perfect timing, appearing right when the ride started to get mentally heavy. Or more likely I was just in a better mood after seeing him.

Then several months went by without a single sighting because I hadn't been doing any riding. There was no navy jersey. No questionable greeting. And no glimpse of those stupidly distracting calves. When the days came that I'd normally be out riding, I wondered if he noticed I hadn't been around.

So when he pulled up beside me on the shoulder that morning, he might as well have been a hallucination conjured by dehydration.

"Hey, you okay?" he repeated, switching to a slightly more concerned tone when I didn't answer right away.

I tried to laugh it off. "Oh... Yeah, I'm fine. Well... fine-ish. I haven't ridden in a while and one of my legs thought this would be a great time to remind me of that."

"Your right leg?" He nodded at it like he already knew the answer. "I saw you stretching and rubbing it when I was coming up."

The fact that he had noticed me before I even knew he was coming should not have made my heart thump like that. But it did.

"I was wondering what happened to you," he said while resting his forearm on the handlebar. "Seems like I haven't seen your Cookie Monster jersey in forever. I was thinking maybe you moved or changed routes."