Is There Still Sex in the City?

“I’d love to, but I’m trying not to drink or eat too much.”

“Me neither. Hmm, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go for a bike ride.”

“Yay!”

Tangled Up in a Pod

The friend pods were everywhere. It wasn’t long before I was surrounded by one of them.

The problem with the pods is that everyone rides at slightly different speeds. Usually at speeds that are too fast to outbike and too slow to stay behind. The result is that everyone inadvertently ends up riding next to each other at close enough to the same speed to have to make conversation.

This isn’t usually difficult or unpleasant. All you have to do is say something like “nice day for a ride” and kind of smile and nod and give a small finger waggle and eventually someone in the pod takes the lead and like ducklings the rest follow.

In this particular pod of four, that didn’t happen. The woman and one of the men went ahead, but two men lingered behind. Sometimes this happens due to oncoming traffic that makes passing ill-advised.

The two men looked over at me, so I looked over at them. One was fairly nondescript. But the other one had a mustache. A gray-haired mustache that was paired with the jolly, largely line-free skin of a man who eats well and knows how to have a good time.

“Like your bike,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks,” I said, hoping they’d pass. They were trying to ride three across, which just isn’t safe. I hate that. If a car hit one of us we could all topple like dominos.

“What kind of bike is it?” he said.

Really? Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to try to have a conversation between bikes when cars are roaring past at forty miles per hour? “It’s a mountain bike,” I said between gritted teeth.

And then, thank god, he nodded and he and his friend passed.

The next stop was the ferry. It took cars and bikers across the bay to an island that was known as a mecca for riding. The roads were picturesque and there wasn’t a lot of traffic.

When I arrived at the dock, the ferry was just coming in. The friend pod was clustered by the side while Tilda Tia was right up at the edge of the dock as if angling to get on first. Which meant I had to pass the pod people to get to her.

“Headed to Shelter Island?” asked the mustachioed guy, as if Shelter Island weren’t the only stop on the ferry.

I nodded.

“We’re biking to the Ram’s Head Inn for lunch. You should join.”

“Thank you,” I said, pleased. So far this bike-riding adventure was proving to be a good way to meet people.

I gestured at Tilda Tia and told him I was with someone.

He gave her the once-over, decided she was okay, and suggested that she come too.

“Success,” I hissed as I wheeled my bike up to Tilda Tia. I pointed out the pod and told her they’d asked if we wanted to have lunch with them.

“No,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because they remind me of my first husband and his friends. And that’s not what I’m looking for.”

And to prove it, she wheeled her bike to the bow of the boat, putting as much distance between her and the pod people as possible.

Indeed, Tilda Tia had an entirely different type of guy in mind as I would discover ten miles later.

We were pedaling around a beautifully landscaped peninsula dotted with large historic houses when she suddenly pulled up short.

“There it is,” she said, gesturing at a Victorian mansion. “My fantasy house. The house I’d live in if I had all the money in the world.”